


run (because you know you cannot hide)

by e_va



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Torture, Canon-Typical Violence, Family Feels, Five-centric, Friendly to all the Hargreeves siblings, Gen, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Mild Blood, Worldbuilding, and grace and pogo are alive, but all the sibs get some attention, except they do all get along better rn theyre working on things, i love five but lbr hes rude af so, mainly for the commission bc so much of their stuff is a mystery!!!, not super detailed but some, they stopped the apocalypse and its the present day
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2019-11-26 02:11:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18174473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/e_va/pseuds/e_va
Summary: "A possible (but currently unexplored weakness) demonstrated by Five is a proclivity towards unusual, but strong, emotional attachments... Whether or not this proclivity may be exploitable is currently unknown."The Apocalypse may be off, but the Commission still has a vested interest in bringing Five back into the fold.Kidnapping his family is either a stroke of genius, or the worst mistake they've ever made.





	1. take my heart, pull it apart

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhhh hello welcome to my Five-centric piece! i love him! some of the world-building i do for the commission may not line up 100% with what is presented in the show, mainly because i like, really didnt want to go back and rewatch the entire show just so i could take notes each time they were mentioned.
> 
> fic title is from [Outrunning Karma by Alec Benjamin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aFqr-TWgeZc) and chapter title is from [Body by Mother Mother](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4o0WYiK52Dg)  
> they are both, as all chapter titles will be, song lyrics from the Five playlist that i listen to on loop when writing this fic

The sun is warm and gentle on Gregory Handel’s face.  He’ll pay for this later, of course, when his skin is puffy and red and his skin is peeling off his body like bark from a tree.  That, however, is a problem for his future self.  God knows that with his work schedule, it’s going to be a long time before he gets to do anything like this again.

Gregory takes an idle sip of his drink.  It’s sweet and fruity—the flavors are just right, pleasant on the palette and not too overpowering.  He savors the taste as the pool water laps around gently around his knees, which are currently dangling in the water as he sits at the pool’s edge.  The idea of taking another dip is really starting to seem irresistible.  Hell, he could stay here forever.  It would be a good place to move once he retires.  They say the warmth is good for old, tired bones.  Chronic pain, too.  The world is so quiet here, the people beautiful and polite. 

The logistics of it would be tricky, of course, and he’s never been large about visiting somewhere more than once.  But wouldn’t that be better than settling down somewhere he’s never been and then hating it?  Being recognized would be a risk, but it might be a worthwhile one.

He’s still pondering the particulars of it when an irritatingly familiar _whoosh_ sounds from the pool filter next to him.  There’s a clatter and then an unpleasant gurgling noise, like a backed up pipe about to burst.

“Jesus,” says Gregory, though he quite frankly doesn’t have the energy to feel anything other than resignation.  The grind never ends.  “ _Really_?”

There’s a small circular lid that the staff can lift to clean out coagulated debris, and Gregory sighs heavily.  How gross.  He sticks his fingers into the little holes and sets the lid off to the side.  He pulls the bronze cylinder out from where it’s resting in a dense nest of fallen leaves and dead bees.

Gregory has to dig his nails into the space between the cylinder’s body and its lid in order to pop it open.  When the cap finally gives, he drags the hand he’d stuck in the filter hastily across his board shorts to dry them and then sticks it into the vessel, fishing out the paper from within.

Oh.  Papers, plural.  Well, that’s a surprise.  Gregory has received complicated instructions before, though even those are rarely longer than a single page—management has always tended to prefer clarity and efficacy over specificity.  So this is…unexpected to say the least.

Gregory fumbles with the tube and its cap as he tries to stuff them back into the filter.  After a couple tries, he finally gets it in, where it disappears with a second _swoosh_.  He pays it no mind.

How can he?  This is, as far as Gregory remembers, entirely unprecedented.  Management hasn’t just sent him a couple pages of instructions—they’ve sent him a manila envelope, stuffed so full that the flimsy metal clasp looks ready to give.  There’s a message on the front of it: _Attention, Agent Gamma. Mission priority red. Enclosed are your full instructions and a copy of our complete file on your target. Pay will be double, received upon completion._

The script is small and dark.  Whoever wrote it was obviously angry.  The ‘r’ in ‘target’ looks almost like an ‘n’, as if the author had pressed so hard on the downswoop of the letter that the tip of their pencil had broken.

“Huh,” says Gregory.  Double pay?  It’s not as common as it used to be. He should really wait until he’s somewhere private that he can read this, but, well…he _is_ alone now.  Kind of.  He glances idly over his shoulder.  No one in sight.  Besides, who the hell is going to tell?

Gregory pulls up the metal tabs and pops open the flap, sliding the file out.  It feels even heavier now that he can see how many long the damn thing is.  Holy _shit_.  It’s a hundred pages at least. 

The wonderment only lasts for a moment before irritation takes its place.  Seriously?  His first day off and they think they can entice him to drop his hard-earned break with some _double pay_?  For the largest assignment he’s ever seen?

Yeah, right.  They can fucking choke.

Gregory contemplates stuffing the assignment back into the drain filter.  It won’t get sent back, but the Commission would get the message nonetheless when the job continued to go undone and Gregory continued to enjoy his extremely well-earned vacation.

Gregory loves his job—he loves his work in the way that cheesy, inspirational career commercials say that you’re supposed to.  But a job is still a job, and Gregory doesn’t believe in letting his work life and his personal life bleed into one another.  His bosses can deal with that and wait until he’s on the clock.  Besides, it’s not like it matters.  They _do_ have all the time in the world.

He flips the file open, idle and bored.  Command will be pissed with the delay, but they’ll still forgive him when he comes wandering back.  And after they give him a slap on the hand they’ll inevitably send him packing to actually handle the job.  So, he supposes, he might as well get a head start on the reading.

Gregory doesn’t just love his job.  He’s also very good at it.  And this means, appropriately, that he considers himself a tough fellow to surprise. 

But absolutely nothing could have prepared him for the contents of the file.  He gags on the sip he’d just taken of his piña colada, lurching forward just enough to spit it into the pool and clear his airway.

Gregory stares at the targets name, and then the photo, and then the newly _updated_ photo.

He flips the file shut and sticks it back in the envelope, putting it down on the ground next to him as he picks himself up.  After getting back to his feet, he walks over to one of the poolside tables.  Sitting there is a wallet and a pair of sunglasses.  The shades are a woman’s style, but Gregory can definitely pull them off.

“Hey, Holly!” Gregory calls out.  “Do you mind?”

No response.

“Cool,” says Gregory.  “I’m taking that as a yes.”  He slides them onto his face, dimming the brightness around him.  He stares at the wallet thoughtfully.  Eh, might as well.  He picks it up and opens it.  There’s nearly three hundred dollars cash in there.  _Nice._ Gregory tucks the bills in his pocket, flipping the wallet shut and placing it back on the table.

Finally, Gregory makes his way back over to the poolside.  He grabs the manila folder off the ground, tucking it under one arm as he holds his drink with his other hand.

He leaves the pool area unseen, sliding back into the interior of the hotel.  It’s nearly mid-day and everything is still quiet.  There are very few other patrons in sight, a mark of how truly luxurious this place is.  It’s the sort of establishment you come to when you want to feel like you’re having an exclusive experience, and that means that you can’t have too many patrons crowding up the place at once. 

It is such a shame that he has to leave.  Gregory downs the last of his piña colada, closing his eyes and letting the pleasant flavor bloom across his tongue.  Well, that’s that. 

“Excuse me, miss,” he flags down a passing member of the hotel staff, a young woman in a clean, crisp uniform.  Her hair is dark and her naturally brown skin is sun-kissed with golden undertones.  She’s gorgeous, and judging by the way that she can’t seem to keep her eyes on his face, the sentiment does not go unreciprocated.  Damn, it really _is_ a tragedy of epic proportions to have to go.

“Ah,” she says.  She still looks a bit taken aback, gaze flickering from his abs to his face to his abs again before she apparently remembers herself and then straightens up, flushing.  “Sorry, what can I do for you?” Her smile is kind and sincere. 

“I’m afraid that I’ll be cutting my stay here short,” he says.

“Oh,” the smile turns into a manufactured frown.  “I’m very sorry to hear that.  Has your stay been unsatisfactory?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Gregory promises, offering her a reassuring smile.  “Work calls, I’m afraid.  You know how it is.”

Understanding dawns on her face.  “Of course,” she says.  “It happens all the time.  If you can let me know your name, I’d be happy to put the rest of your reservation on hold.  You’re free to return and use your remaining days at any time.”

“You do that?”

There’s a knowing edge to her next smile.  “Absolutely.  We understand that our hotel caters to a sophisticated group of individuals whose schedules are often not as accommodating to vacationing as they might like.  Since payment for our services is upfront and nonrefundable, we welcome patrons who are called away prematurely to come back and enjoy the remainder of their time whenever is most convenient for them.”

Maybe this vacation isn’t unsalvageable after all.  “My reservation will be under the name Gamma,” he says.  “Business name.”

She doesn’t question it, nodding briskly.  “I’ll see to it that your premature departure is noted.  Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Gregory tilts his head thoughtfully to the side.  “Yes, actually,” he says.  He reaches up to his sunglasses and, piña colada glass still in hand, nudges them further down the bridge of his nose so he can get a better look at her.  “You can give me your name?”

One eyebrow shoots straight up.  She’s too professional for the expression to verge into the territory of active disdain, but Gregory can read between the lines.  She’s attracted, but not interested. 

“I’m Christine,” she finally says.  There’s a flatness to her voice that tells Gregory that her name is the only thing that she’s interested in sharing with him.

Gregory slides his glasses back into place and offers her another, more measured smile.  “I’ll be sure to pass my compliments onto your manager.  I appreciate your help.”

She smiles back, face settling back into something more comfortable.  “Of course,” she says.  “Would you like me to take your glass?”

“That would be lovely, thank you.”  Gregory is already a couple steps away when he has to force himself to stop so suddenly that he almost trips.  Damn, not a good look on him.  “Oh, wait!”

Christine turns back in his direction, head tilting in question.  “Yes?”

He smiles.  “Your drinks are amazing,” he says, words dripping with saccharine sweetness.  “Could you do me a favor and bring one of those,” he nods to the glass his piña colada had been in, “to my friend Holly out in the pool?  The one on the overlook.  I think she could use the refreshment.  She’s a little—mm, how should I put it?  She’s a little dead to the world right now.  But I think one of these might pep her right up!”

Christine brightens. “Oh, to Mrs. Bismark?”

“The one and only.”

“I’ll do that immediately,” Christine’s back straightens and she sets off again, walking with purpose.

Gregory takes that as his cue to pick up the pace.  It’s the right choice—he makes it to the door just in time.  He’s just letting himself out when a sharp, ear-splitting scream cuts through the air, audible even from here, halfway across the hotel.

Oh, good!  She’d been the one to find the body.  She’d seemed pretty soft, unlikely to do anything stupid like try and fish the corpse out of the pool herself, which would have been such a shame.  Gregory always prefers it when the papers gets to take pictures of his jobs as he left them.

They’re always prettier that way.

 

“Klaus!  Klaus!  Ugh, come on!”

Klaus groans, squeezing his eyes shut against the light as his head pulses.  “Shut up, Ben,” he mutters.

“Klaus,” says Ben again.  There’s a sad and imploring note to his voice, and _fuck_ Klaus hates it when Ben does that.  It never fails to make him feel like the biggest piece of shit to walk the face of the planet.  Ben has remained at Klaus’s side even through Klaus’s ugliest and unkindest moments.  And Klaus knows, he _knows_ , that he shouldn’t be repaying his brother by getting so high that he’s incognizant.  So high that Ben’s only point of connection to the living world is rolling around on the ground giggling hysterically rather than, y’know, actually talking to him.

Ben claims that it’s alright, waves away Klaus’s apologies and regularly pesters him about checking back into rehab, but then sometimes he does _that_ voice.  Sometimes he looks and sounds so damn sad and alone that Klaus _knows_ that he’s fucking up.  That he’s doing something cruel to one of the only people who has ever really loved him.

It’s in moments like these that Klaus can feel the nausea building, rising up his throat and filling his mouth with something bitter and disgusting.  It triggers a thought that he knows passes through all of their heads every once in a while.  _Why, why, why?  Why had it been Ben?_

Because the rest of them had been too weak to save him?  Because Ben wouldn’t have had it any other way?  Because their father was a goddamn rat bastard who couldn’t suffer any goodness in their family to live?

“Klaus!” Ben hisses, more aggressive now.  “Klaus, I know you’re conscious.  You need to get up right now—you have a concussion.”

That throws Klaus off.

“I’m not high?” he asks quietly, surprised.

Klaus’s eyes are still shut, but Ben’s confusion is palpable.  “What?” he says.  “No, Klaus, you’ve been sober ever since we stopped the apocalypse.  _Four months ago._ ”

“Four mo—shit!” The dam breaks, memories rushing back as the puzzle pieces slot into place.  The apocalypse, now averted.  The ache in his head, too pointed to be from a drug comedown.  Klaus’s eyes snap open.  He sits bolt upright, and then winces as the movement jostles his head, sending a hot, unpleasant wave of pain through it.  It’s nothing compared to the way his stomach drops when he sees the narrow, metal bars in front of him.  “Oh, oh no,” he says, knowing he sounds borderline frantic.  “Not again.  The others better fucking find me this time.”

They’re working together as a team again.  They’re reconnecting as a family, and Klaus thinks they’re doing a pretty good job of it.  When he’d been kidnapped by Hazel and Cha-cha, they had all been distant.  Orbiting each other nervously, everyone wanting to move in closer but not knowing if the others felt the same.  They’d all been running around doing their own things, mindless of what the others were going through. 

But things are different now.  They see each other nearly every day, except for when Allison is in LA visiting her daughter.  And they’re supposed to stay in contact—keep in touch with one another, especially now that the Umbrella Academy is back together and old enemies keep popping out of the woodwork to try and exact their revenge. 

So the others will notice this time.  They have to.  Right? 

“Um,” says Ben, “not likely.”

Klaus turns to give Ben a glare as quickly as the pain in his head permits.  “What the fuck, Ben?  I’m trying to stay positive.”

Ben sighs.  He doesn’t bother deigning Klaus with a response, sampling glancing meaningfully over his shoulder.

In the dim light, Klaus almost doesn’t see what Ben is looking at.  When he does, he almost wishes that he hadn’t.

“No,” Klaus breathes.  “Oh, no, no.  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Klaus had known that dropping the drug habit was never going to be easy.  But some days are easier than others.  Some days the itch is nothing more than a faint tickle, not always present and easily ignored.  On other days, the bad days, it roils under his skin with a ferocity that’s almost painful, an agony that is almost impossible to ignore and that begs for the pacification of a needle in the arm or a handful of pills when no one’s looking. 

Right now it’s the worst it has been in months.  Oh, what he wouldn’t give to do a line right now.  Nothing too serious, just enough to take the edge off of this awful, all-consuming terror building in his chest.  Klaus ignores it as he stumbles his way over to his unconscious siblings, wincing against the pain that flares in his head as protest against the abrupt movement.

He collapses by Diego’s side first.  His heart almost stops when his clammy, shaking fingers struggle to find a pulse.  It isn’t until Ben draws close again and says: “Hey, calm down.  I already checked while you were unconscious.  They’re all breathing,” that Klaus can make himself still enough to confirm it for himself.

“Okay,” Klaus mutters, and then moves on.  Ben humors him silently as Klaus goes around to each of his siblings, checking first and foremost for a heartbeat, and then for injuries.  Diego and Luther are more or less undamaged.  Allison, like him, looks like she got whacked in the head, and there’s a nasty bruise blooming across her right eye.

But Vanya—Vanya is out of reach.  Whatever sick bastard kidnapped them stuck her in a different cell.  She’s lying on her back on a rickety metal table that looks like it was stolen from a morgue.  Next to her there’s a metal pole, a bag of mysterious liquid dangling from it.  A bag which is connected to a thin tube that is currently sticking out of Vanya’s arm.

Klaus grits his teeth.  Whoever this motherfucker is, they’re screwed.  Klaus’s hand-to-hand combat skills have never been (and probably never will be) as good as his siblings want them to be, but he still picked a thing or two up in the war.  He can and will beat the ass of the individual who thought it was a good idea to stick a needle into his sister and keep her drugged unconscious.

And Five…Five isn’t here at all.

Klaus doesn’t know what that means.  As much as his world is coming back into focus now, the precise memory of being taken is refusing to come back to him.  He knows that they must have been taken separately.  It’s the only way something like this could have happened.  Their cooperation still needs some work, but spending their entire childhoods under their dad’s thumb had some benefits.  One of those benefits is the ability to make a damn deadly team, even when they aren’t exactly getting along. 

Individually, however, they still have plenty of vulnerabilities. 

Five’s spatial jumps make him a slippery bastard, though.  And God knows that for the all the family’s promises to keep an eye on one another, Five has proven himself the least cooperative when it comes to sharing his location and activities, making him painfully difficult to find even for them.

That’s good, at least.  One less sibling to worry about.  Though out of all of them, Five’s powers are the ones that would most easily lend themselves to escape from a situation like this, so Klaus supposes that that’s not super great.

 “Oh jeez,” Klaus runs his hands through his hair.  “This is bad…”

“It’s going to be okay,” Ben offers.  As reassuring as his words are, they seem a little emptier for the way that Ben has his arms crossed over his chest nervously.  He looks the way he used to when Klaus was shooting up for the first time after being clean for a little while, or the way he did when Klaus was being reckless with dosages as he relentlessly chased after a better, longer high.

That is to say, Ben looks concerned that Klaus is going to shuffle off the mortal coil at any given moment.

So, yeah.  It’s actually not very reassuring at all, on second thought.

“Yeah right,” Klaus says.

Ben sighs, pursing his lips anxiously.  “Try and wake up the others,” he suggests.  “They can help you more than I can.”

Klaus gives Ben a reproachful glance.  “You’re always plenty of help,” he says, even as he makes his way back around to Diego and starts jostling his shoulder, trying to rouse him.  “Did you see anything?”

Ben’s eyes narrow.  “The guys who took you were in black tactical gear.  Knocked you on the back of the head with a machine gun while you were distracted.  The others were already here when they tossed you in.  It looked like they were just following orders, though.  I have no idea who’s really in charge.”  Ben’s back straightens, and he tilts his head thoughtfully to the side.  “You want me to go scout the place out?”

That would be a good plan.  A logical one.  But right now, the idea of sending Ben away makes Klaus feel sick and unpleasant, so he gives his head a shake: _no_.

Ben opens his mouth, but before he can protest Klaus’s refusal Diego finally starts shifting under Klaus’s prodding.  His face twitches in his sleep and he lets out a small, frustrated sigh.  “Fuck off,” Diego mutters, weakly batting at Klaus’s hand as he tries to turn over onto his other side and away from Klaus’s harassment.

“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey!” Klaus says in sing-song.  Diego’s brow furrows in irritation.  “Just kidding.  There aren’t any eggs.  Or bacon, for that matter.  Because we’ve been kidnapped.  Wake up, dude.”

 _That_ , at least, gets Diego’s attention.  Diego’s eyes flicker open, and he sits up slowly, rubbing at his temple as he does.  “What the hell are you talking about, Klaus?” he starts, and then his eyes go wide as he takes in their location.  “Shit.”  Diego’s on his feet in half a moment.  He’s already reaching for his knives.  He curses when his hands close around empty air, though he doesn’t look surprised. 

Diego stands there for a moment, still and angry.  Finally, he takes a deep breath.  Klaus can practically see him physically suppressing his outward, boiling rage into something quieter and more subdued, something that twists quietly and dangerously beneath his skin rather than something uncontrolled and volatile.     

Finally, he turns back towards Klaus and outstretches a hand.  Klaus accepts it, letting Diego pull him back to his feet. 

“You good, man?” says Diego.  He gives Klaus’s torso a quick pat and then grabs him by either side of his face, tilting his head this way and that.  “Shit,” Diego mutters, when he sees the blood crusted on the back of Klaus’s skull.  “Let me see your eyes.”

“Oh, I’m definitely concussed,” Klaus says.  “That’s probably not our biggest concern right now, though.”

“It’s a pretty damn big one,” Diego mutters, but he does indeed drop his hands and turns towards his siblings.  His eyes go large when they catch on Vanya, contained in her lonesome cage and looking—for all intents and purposes—dead to the world.  “Shit, Vanya.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Diego is silent for a long moment, and then he kicks the ground with a sudden, angry yell. 

“Diego,” Klaus warns.

“How the fuck did this happen?” says Diego.  He doesn’t look any less angry, but his tone drops to an acceptable level of loud, even if it’s still tense and uncomfortable.

“I don’t know,” Klaus says.  After a moment’s pause, he puts a hand on Diego’s shoulder.  “It doesn’t matter.  We’re gonna get out of this together.  You should…go wake Allison.  I’ll take Luther.”

 

Luther, for all that he’s the good soldier of the family, could sleep through a fucking hurricane. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Luther,” Klaus hisses from where he’s crouched by his brother’s head.  “I’d slap you if I wasn’t scared you’d whack me in your sleep.”  He leans in closer and resumes jabbing his finger into the side of Luther’s face sharply.  “Come ooooooon.”

Luther’s still out cold when a tap on the shoulder has Klaus jumping out of his skin.

“Wha—oh, geez, Allison,” Klaus winces.  Allison rolls her eyes and then glances at Luther with a pointed expression.

“Yeah, he’s not hurt,” Klaus says.  “Just a deep sleeper.  I’m fine too, by the way.”

Allison’s face pulls into a frown.  She brings a hand, gentle and concerned, to cup the back of Klaus’s head.  Fuck.  She’s almost better at inducing guilt than Ben.  Not quite, but still damn close.

“Okay, yeah, I got it.  Don’t touch it,” Klaus brushes her hand away.  “I’m judging from the extent of our communication right now that today is…not a good day?”

Allison glances away sharply, staring at the ground.  She winces when the sudden movement jostles her own head injury, but she keeps her gaze resolutely averted.

“Klaus,” Ben chides.  He doesn’t need to, though, because Klaus is already in the process of walking it back.

“I didn’t mean…Allison, it’s fine,” Klaus says regretfully.  “We’ll figure it out even if you can’t rumor us out of here. 

Allison looks back in his direction.  _Sorry,_ she signs, her gaze still downcast.  She looks ashamed.

“Don’t be,” says Klaus, at the same time as Diego says: “It’s not your fault, Allison.”

God, today’s really out to make Klaus feel like a piece of shit.  Allison’s injury is one thing that they hadn’t been able to erase when they stopped the apocalypse, and her path to recovery has been rocky.  On one hand, there’s quite literally no better doctor on the face of the planet than Grace, whose programming makes her the perfect physician, regardless of your ailment.  On the other hand, the damage to Allison’s vocal chords had been extensive and severe.  She’s getting better, but the process is slow, and she’ll probably never heal completely.  Some days, she can speak a little bit.  Quiet, and at a rasp, but she can speak.  Other days, the pain of it gets the better of her, or—even worse—she’ll open her mouth and can’t get anything but air to come out, no matter how hard she tries.

It sounds like today is one of the latter.  _Bad day_ , she signs, gestures sharp with frustration.  _I feel useless_. 

Her signing, like the rest of theirs, is slow and heavily interspersed with fingerspelling for the signs that they either can’t remember or that they haven’t learned yet.  It’s only been four months, and they’ve been learning primarily as a family and through online lessons.  It’s been fun but slow. 

Pogo and Grace are enthusiastic about the possibilities though, even if Allison’s voice never gets any better than it already has.

“If I remember correctly,” Pogo had said, adjusting his glasses thoughtfully, “your power is not in the spoken word, Allison.  It’s in the lie.  Perhaps, once you get your legs back under you…well, you must not give up hope.”

“You aren’t useless,” Klaus promises.  “Not anymore than I am.  It’s not like I can use my powers any more consistently than you can.”

Allison smiles at that.  It’s still a little half-hearted, but it’s better than nothing and right now, Klaus will take what he can get. 

“Okay,” Diego interjects sharply, pushing between Allison and Klaus to lean over Luther’s unconscious form.  “Get the fuck up, Luther, you big lug.”  And then he does what Klaus had not had the courage to do, and slaps Luther across the face.

Luther grunts, eyes finally flickering open.

“Took you long enough, Luther,” Klaus groans, ignoring Diego’s yelp when Allison balls her hand up into a fist and drives it into the spot under his ribs. 

“Where are we?” Luther says as he sits up.  His voice is thick and bleary with sleep and he brings a hand up to the side of his face, rubbing the place where Diego had slapped him.  “Why does my face hurt?”

“Kidnapped,” Klaus says, at the same time as Allison points accusatorily in Diego’s direction.

“Really, Diego?” says Luther, shooting his Diego a glare.  So far he seems to be taking the news of their group kidnapping well, but his eyes are darting around the room evaluatively.  Luther on _official mission_ mode is a lot better than _team leader_ Luther, and Klaus is hopeful that he may able to be come up with a plan to get them out of this.  “Where’s Five?”

“Not here,” says Diego.

“Any injuries?”

“Meh,” Klaus offers.

“Liar,” says Ben.

“Allison and I got knocked on the head a bit,” he continues, “but we’re alright.”

Luther’s mouth tugs down in a frown.  “Are you sure?” When Klaus nods, he turns to Allison for confirmation.

She smiles at him.  _O-K_ , she fingerspells.

Luther doesn’t look entirely pacified, but he doesn’t say anything more on the matter, probably aware that this isn’t the time or place. 

“Can you bend the bars and get us the hell out of here?” Diego finally says, clearly exasperated by the waiting. 

“Right,” says Luther, blinking slowly.  He turns his gaze to the bars separating their cell from Vanya’s, appraising them carefully.  Klaus watches with bated breath, aware of what’s hanging in the air, unsaid: Luther is currently the only one of them who can use their powers to help in their escape.  And if he can’t, then they’re up the creek without a paddle.  “It should be doable…is _she_ hurt?”

“Can’t tell,” says Klaus.  “Ben? You ditching us, buddy?”

He turns to his brother, who has since wandered through the bars and into Vanya’s cell, where he’s leaning over her unconscious form and examining her closely.

“She’s alive,” Ben confirms.  “And she doesn’t look hurt.  But…” he looks at the bag attached to the IV drip suspiciously.  “God knows what they’re pumping her system with to keep her out of it.  And I’m not ditching, but seeing her alone in this cell is…” Ben shudders and then averts his gaze, staring at the floor.  “I just don’t feel right leaving her by herself.”

“You and your broken bird syndrome,” Klaus rolls his eyes, and then turns to the rest of his siblings, who are watching with a strange mix bemusement and curiosity.  “Well, she’s breathing, at least.  But the sooner we can get her out of here, the better.”

“Alright, everybody,” Luther says slowly.  He clambers to his feet with a grunt, looking a little less steady under his own weight than he normally does.  “Stand back, just in case.”

All of them, even Diego, take a couple steps backward as Luther moves closer to the metal bars separating their cell from Vanya’s.  The bars are only about an inch in circumference and situated about three inches apart from one another, but Luther, with his large fingers and clunky leather gloves, struggles for a moment to close his hands around them.  He pauses, testing for any sort of reaction

Klaus breathes out a sigh of relief when nothing comes.

After one more moment of evaluation, Luther braces himself against the metal.  His arms and back flex as he throws his strength fully into the attempt, and for one incredible moment the sound of metal groaning is audible, and Klaus almost can’t believe that it’s really going to be this easy.

And then the air fills with a sharp crackling noise and Luther falls to his knees with a muffled yell. 

“Luther!” Klaus shouts, clapping his hands over his mouth.  Next to him, Allison inhales so harshly that Klaus can see her physically flinch from the sudden strain on her throat.  She doesn’t pay it any heed though, instead ignoring the way that Luther vaguely, weakly tries to gesture at her to stay back in favor of kneeling by his side. 

“Woah, woah, woah!” Even Ben is yelling, departing from his spot next to Vanya and striding right up to the bars.  He drops to his knees there, leaning forward until his head is almost passing through the metal as he tries to peer at Luther, who is curled up and tense, body still shuddering from the force of an electric shock that Klaus thinks probably would have flat-out killed any of the rest of them. 

There’s an expression of acute distress on Ben’s face.  He reaches out, arm passing through the bars as he tries to approximate the act of running his hand comfortingly down Luther’s arm, an act of fraternal comfort that Luther can neither see nor feel.  Whatever instinct it is that has Ben reaching out for someone who doesn’t even know he’s there time and time again, it’s damn strong.  Ben has done it hundreds of times to Klaus—when he was coming down or in withdrawal or just bemoaning his misfortune and misery in general.  He never been met with any more success than he’s finding right now.

Diego, on the other hand, isn’t dealing with this by fretting desperately over Luther like Ben and Allison or staring in stunned horror like Klaus (or laying unconscious on a table like Vanya, though that’s not exactly voluntary on her part).

Instead, Diego whips around, away from Vanya and to the other set of bars that face outwards into the larger room that is containing them.  “Hey! You son of a bitch!  You goddamn fucking coward!  I’m going to fucking _gut_ you.”

Klaus feels the blood leech out of his face.  “Diego, no,” he hisses, his brother’s idiocy enough to shake him out of his shock and kick him into action.  He grabs at Diego’s shoulder as if he’s capable of physically reeling his brother in. 

Diego jerks his arm free.  “No,” he spits.  “I want to see their face!”

Oh, Jesus.  Klaus brings his hands up to his aid and runs them through his hair, tangling his fingers up in the strands and pulling on them.  It tugs on his head injury, but the pain of it is so grounding that it’s almost a relief.  “Diego,” he says nervously.  “We’re all unhappy to be in this shithole, but I don’t really think that this is the time to try and provoke anyone…”

“I don’t mind,” says a new voice, as the thick metal door to the room outside their cell swings open.  A man walks in, leaving the door open behind him.

“Well,” Klaus can’t keep himself from saying.  “You aren’t what I was expecting.”

Their kidnapper is—and God, Klaus hates that _this_ is the descriptor that pops into his head, but there really isn’t a better way to put it—their kidnapper is _really, really hot_.  He looks young, like he’s in his late twenties or early thirties.  There’s a healthy glow to his skin, though his cheeks and nose are flushed a little pink, like he’s just recently gotten too much sun.  His hair is a pleasant shade of chestnut brown that has clearly been styled with a painstaking amount of effort.  With his slim-fit black pants, white shirt, and pale-wash denim jacket, he looks disorientingly…ordinary. Women’s sunglasses are propped up on his face.  He looks like the poster-child for Abercrombie and Fitch. He looks like he got Instagram famous by taking travel photos and cultivating the sort of authentic image that comes from being a man who’s confident enough in their masculinity to do things like wear women’s accessories without a hint of irony.

If it weren’t for the ghosts trailing behind him like some sort of gruesome, nauseating entourage, he’d totally be Klaus’s type.

The man smiles at them, sharp and polite.  “I get it,” he says.  “But luckily for you, or,” he eyes Diego, who is still radiating fury, “unfortunately, this isn’t about you.  It’s about your brother.”

( _“He vivisected me,” murmurs one ghost, his torso a bloody, empty cavity, “and left me to die on the ballroom floor.  He said I should be grateful to be getting such a cinematic death!  How the hell was I supposed to know what that meant?  It was 1683!)_

Allison tilts her head to the side curiously. 

“What?” says Diego.

( _“He choked me to death and then hung me from my bedroom window with a scarf that_ I _gave him,” whispers another, blue-faced and bug-eyed.  “The gall of it.”)_

Their captor shrugs listlessly.  “Sorry.  I mean it when I say that it really isn’t anything personal, though.” He makes his way over to a desk in the corner of the room, opening one of the drawers and rummaging around inside.  He keeps speaking as he does.  “Hopefully I can send the five of you on your way soon enough.  Though…speaking of, I need someone here to help me send a message to our dear Epsilon. Aha!”

( _“He told me he loved me and then he drowned me in the goddamn swimming pool,” says the bikini-clad form of a woman who looks like a twentieth-century Hollywood starlet.  She spits.  
“Motherfucker.”)_

He pulls a pen from the drawer triumphantly and then places it on the table, next to a yellow pad of paper.  He reaches into it once more, but this time it doesn’t take him very long to find whatever he’s looking for.  He pulls it out, toying with it idly as he turns on his heel and starts stalking closer.

Klaus recognizes the glint of it immediately, his stomach dropping with anticipation and fear.  “So,” the man says, his pearl-white smile glistening even in the shadows, still weaving Diego’s blade between his fingers: both a threat and a promise.  “Any volunteers?”

 

**_An Excerpt from [Target File: Five]_ **

**Psychological Profile – Section 2B: Threat level and potential countermeasures  
Last updated upon managerial request to finalize promotion: May 5, XX46 T.A. Linear Time**

_Five (Rank: Currently S, designated call-sign Epsilon)_

_Threat level: Medium to high_

_Five, in his short time here, has quickly proven himself to be one of the best trained assassins to have ever worked under the Temps Aeternalis.  It is readily apparent that the vast majority of people will fail if given the task of triumphing over him in a contest of pure skill.  His intelligence and notorious volatility make him a potential liability.  However, he also appears to be keenly aware of the countermeasures that the Commission can and has used against its enemies, strongly decreasing the likeliness that he is a flight risk.  Additionally, Five will be difficult to out-plan, but not necessarily to overpower.  His time in the apocalypse left him developmentally deficient in ways that even our doctors and scientists were unable to fully reverse; it is unlikely that he is capable of sustaining much in the way of physical damage.  If you can manage to get your hands on him, if even for a moment, you may find it possible to clip his wings or, at the very least, minimize the threat posed by his warping.  As such, a fundamental aspect of almost all potential countermeasures against him is brute force.  A possible (but currently unexplored weakness) is a proclivity towards unusual, but strong, emotional attachments.  The Handler reports that he had, during the Apocalypse, acquired (of all things) a mannequin.  Reportedly, he spoke to it regularly, and appeared deeply regretful over leaving it behind.  He also carries with him a book which he refuses to let anyone else touch, potentially suggesting sentimental value.  During our interview with him, he grew irate and temperamental when asked questions about it, threatening to “chop off [our] fingers and feed them to [us].”  Whether or not this proclivity may be exploitable is currently unknown._


	2. screaming (cause you've got it too good to cry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> five: you guys suck i hate you and never want to talk to you again  
> also five, about ten minutes later: oh my god what if they never talk to me again
> 
> (Or: Anger isn't a very healthy coping mechanism. Too bad roughly forty years of isolation isn't the greatest place to learn about that.)
> 
> (AKA: Five doesn't know how to deal with his feelings or how to express himself in healthy ways. It becomes an issue.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember when i tagged this 'five is rude af'???  
> i wasnt lying  
> Chapter Title: [Giver by K.Flay](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nt26yjdItdA)

Fifteen weeks and three days after they stop the apocalypse for good, Five walks into the family home and finds an intervention waiting.

“What the hell is this?” he asks, though judging by the pensive faces before him he can already wager a guess. All his siblings are clumped up in the living room.  Luther is standing at the front of the pack, which is really just poor manners considering the amount of height he has on the rest of them.  Allison and Diego have pulled chairs out from the table and turned them towards the room’s entrance, sitting with legs closed and arms crossed like parents waiting to lecture their child who has missed curfew.  Vanya is curled up on the couch, knees tucked up against her chest; Klaus is lounging behind her—not _on_ the couch but instead draped lazily across the arch of its back.  He’s gazing absently into the middle distance like he’s completely lost in thought, even though the position probably requires a deceptive amount of balance.  There’s a space on the couch to Vanya’s right that has been left distinctively empty, and Five has the sudden, sneaking suspicion that if he had Klaus’s abilities, he’d see Ben there, elbows on his knees and hands clasped.

“It’s an intervention, babeeeeeey!” Klaus drawls, before devolving into a fit of giggles.  “ _God,_ finally we have one of these for someone who isn’t me!”

“ _Klaus,_ ” Diego hisses, looking aggrieved.  By his side, Allison winces. 

Five arches an eyebrow at the uncomfortable silence that settles over the room like a wet blanket. “Oh?” he keeps his voice calm and even, patiently waiting for further explanation.

The silence stretches out for a moment longer, though there’s a palpable shift in the air from _tense_ to _mildly surprised_. 

It’s Luther who finally gives up the stand-off and breaks the quiet.  “Aren’t you…upset?” he says hesitantly.

Ah, there it is.  Five should probably be offended that they had expected him to react poorly, but he’s mature enough to admit that under ordinary circumstances he probably would not have taken this well. 

Luckily for them, Five has suspected for weeks that something like this was coming.  The thought had been frustrating at first, but eventually he’d resigned himself to it.  It isn’t their fault, he supposes.  How can he expect them to fathom the unfathomable if they haven’t seen it for themselves?  None of them know what it had been like to run a hand through the sands of time, searching desperately for the one, correct grain among millions.  None of them know taste of ash in the mouth or copper on the tongue—the scent of gunpowder in the air.    And none of them know the Temps Aeternalis the way that he does, as anything more than an abstract concept.  A vague threat, a barrier that had stood between them and stopping the end of the world.  They don’t know the things that the Commission can do.  The things that they had done and would do again.

So Five can’t find it in himself to get angry over this.  It had been an inevitability.

But that doesn’t mean it isn’t a waste of time—a waste that he can’t afford if he’s going to keep this damn family alive. 

Five turns on his heel and walks away.

“Five!” says Vanya, starting to rise from her seat.  Her voice is almost forceful, and it is that more than the sudden, strong hand Luther places on his shoulder that stops Five in place.  Luther is strong, but Five has no patience for brutish demonstrations of force.  He could flash out from under Luther’s grip and be in his room or halfway down the street in half a second.  But Vanya…

Vanya’s always been soft-spoken.  She’s always talked like she was afraid of using too much of the air in the room, like she was breaking some sort of unspoken rule.  And since they averted the apocalypse four months ago, it’s only gotten worse, even _with_ the rest of the family now actively trying to draw her out of her shell.  These days, it’s like she thinks that she has confirmation that she doesn’t deserve the desperately small space that has been carved out for her in this family. 

So despite how important and pressing his work is, Five can’t find it in himself to turn his back on her if she’s desperate enough to plead with him to stay.

He sighs, shoulders slumping even as he turns back around, roughly jerking his shoulder out of Luther’s grasp as he does.

“Make it fast.”  He tilts his chin up disdainfully, just so that they know precisely how little he thinks of all this.

“Five,” Luther says.  “We think you need to slow down.”

“Yeah,” says Diego.  “I hate to break it to you, but the apocalypse has been stopped.  The Umbrella Academy has other fish to fry.”

Five can’t help but crinkle his nose in disgust.  “You’re so fucking _short-sighted_.  Of course there are other fish to fry,” he says.  “But not bigger ones. 

“You said it yourself,” Klaus says.  “The Apocalypse has been averted.  Your Tents Eternal or whatever can’t change that.”

Five wants to slam his head into the table.  Violently.  Preferably until he stops breathing.  He settles for clenching his hands into fists so tight that they hurt.  “ _Temps Aeternalis,_ ” he hisses.

“You did say that, though,” says Luther, and then he pauses and stands up straighter, alarm rippling across his face.  “Actually, what _is_ stopping the Commission from…sending agents back to before we stopped the Apocalypse and stopping us from stopping it?”

“If this is the intellectual level we’re functioning at, it’s a wonder that we even managed to stop it in the first place!”

Allison holds her hand up in his direction, fingers outstretched.  She’s either trying to sign his name or just pacify him, but either way Five forces himself to shut his mouth, inhaling sharply.

“I have to admit,” says Vanya, and then swallows and averts her gaze off to the side, “I’ve been wondering the same thing myself.”

Five exhales slowly.  “It’s—” he gestures at the air in front of him in frustration.  What a question.  It’s like being asked to teach quantum physics to a group of toddlers.  Actually, Five thinks bitterly, his siblings are worse than toddlers.  It’s not like a toddler is going do anything with the information other than accept it at face value.  “Time is…malleable, yes?”

His siblings all nod.  They don’t look dead-eyed and lost yet, so Five continues.

“You can move things around.  You can shape them.  Change them.  It’s like clay.  You can bend it, alter its form.  Pull things further apart or press them back together.  You can turn one thing into something else entirely.  But the thing about time is that, unlike clay, you can only play with it so much.  Alterations pile _up_ on one another, and at a certain point it just gets too messy.  The more people try and change something, the less stable that point in time is.  And…think of it…think of it like a chemical compound.  The less stable it is, the more likely it is to destroy _everything_.”  He gives them all a look.  Ah, there it is.  Mostly furrowed brows and confusion as they parse through the infodump.  Hopefully Ben gets it, at least.  He was always the only one who could keep up with Five when they were younger.  Then, just because he’s annoyed and being an asshole sounds like good stress relief, Five shoots them a smug smile and adds: “Think 1-Diazidocarbamoyl-5-azidotetrazole.”

“I think I get it,” says Luther, not looking very much like he gets it at all.

“You can’t change too much or timeline go boom,” Five says.  “If they stop us from stopping the apocalypse, there’s a very good chance that _I_ could just go back and stop them from stopping us, and then _they_ could go back and stop me from stopping them from stopping us, and so on and so forth until the entire damn tapestry unravels and _everything_ falls apart.”

“Then what the hell is the problem, Five _?_ ” Diego says, voice tight with frustration. 

“Are you an _idiot_?  Do you think the fact that the world isn’t actively ending means that they’re just going to leave us alone?”

“I mean,” Vanya interjects, fiddling nervously with his hands.  “Five, you said the Commission is primarily concerned with maintaining the timeline, right?”     

“Yes?”

“Do you really think they’d devote the resources to hunt us down if they can’t fix it?  Would they normally?”

Five’s closes his mouth with a distinctive _click_. “No,” he says.  “But—” But what?  Five’s chest aches, heart skipping a painful, breathless beat as his blood pressure shoots through the roof. “The Commission won’t just let this go.”  It’s _true_.  It’s true and he knows it is, but it’s not quite the right choice of words, and the explanation as to why catches on his tongue and then ties it into a knot.  There are no words to express how _much_ the Commission has truly invested in him—none that won’t leave him feeling raw and exposed and inhuman.

“Five,” Vanya’s looks so sad and guilty that Five catches himself automatically averting his gaze.  Damn it.  He forces his head up so that he’s making eye contact.  “We’re just worried that you’re…fixating.”

“Yeah, man,” Klaus says.  His voice is still casual, but he’s watching Five closely now, his eyes dark and worried.  “We’re not saying that we shouldn’t keep an eye out for the Commission, but you also can’t keep burning the candle at both ends, little guy.”

The air leaves Five’s mouth as a hiss.  “I am not fixating, and if you call me _little guy_ again I will rip your dick off and stick it down the garbage disposal.  And none of you _know_ the Commission, so why don’t you all just fuck right off and let the grown-up handle this, you imbecilic, _bratty_ little children!”

Irritation flashes across Diego’s face.  “We’re trying to help you, for fuck’s sake.”

“I don’t know what sort of delusion you’re living in, but I guarantee that you aren’t any more capable of helping me with this than you are of helping invent light-speed travel.”  He pulls a face at them.  “It’s just a little bit out of your league.”

 _Stop_ , Allison cuts in before Diego can get his retort in.  _Five, we’re worried.  We think you…_ she pauses, brow furrowing.  She pulls her hands up closer to her chest, away from him, and then tentatively fingerspells: _hypervigilance_ and then _PTSD._

“Well,” says Five after his mind unfreezes and the words process.  He turns on his heel once more and starts making his way to the front door.  “I’m glad to see that this has been a _spectacular_ waste of time.”

“Five,” Luther, Diego, Vanya, and Klaus say together.  All of them calling out to him, trying to get him to agree with them but so goddamn unwilling to _listen_.  Five should just ignore them and keep going.  He has more important things to do than entertain their immaturity.  But frustration and anger have never been very productive emotions for Five—they’ve always been explosive and dangerous for him and everyone around him.  It hadn’t been so bad in the apocalypse, when he’d had only himself and the silent, empty world to rage at, and the Commission may have turned the dial up to eleven, but they’d also given him knives and guns and targets.  Now, though, it feels like something unbearable and uncontrollable and he can’t quite get a reign on it.  He doesn’t even know if he wants to.

So instead, Five pivots back around so quickly that he almost gives himself whiplash—a snake poised to strike, poison filling his mouth, bitter and acidic.

“No,” he says.  “If you get bored speculating about my mental health, I will be busy trying to find a way to drag our asses out of the fire _again_.  You’re welcome to join me in the unlikely case that your heads manage to find their way out of your asses.”

 _Five, please,_ Allison tries.

“I would have thought that _you’d_ be a little more understanding, I have to admit,” Five can’t help but snarl at her.  “I’m just trying to keep your daughter from growing up without her mother.  Though I suppose shouldn’t bother—it’s not like you’d get to see her either way.”

Allison reels back like she’s been slapped in the face.  Her hands curl up into fists as she crosses her arms over her stomach defensively.  The hurt in her eyes satisfies a cruel, angry streak in Five’s soul, one that has grown especially itchy since this conversation began.  He basks in the satisfaction of it for a moment before it rolls out like the tide, leaving only a vague sense of nausea and disgust in its wake.

It’s too late to go back now, though.  Five keeps his chin up and his expression carefully blank, even in the face of the shock and distress rippling through his siblings. 

“Five,” says Vanya, sounding completely aghast.  Klaus’s mouth is hanging open slightly, and he’s staring at Five like he doesn’t know who he’s looking at.  The look stings, and Five can feel his hackles rising further.

“What the hell, Five?” says Diego, standing up from his chair.  He starts forward—not like he means to tackle Five or anything, but like he wants to grab Five’s lapels and shake him.  Five shifts instinctually onto his back foot, though he knows its unnecessary: he has no doubt that he could take Diego in combat with both hands tied behind his back.

Regardless, Diego doesn’t get far.  Luther snaps an arm out, catching Diego in the chest while he’s mid-step and blocking his path.

“Fine, Five,” Luther says.  His voice is tense, and his body is taut with contained anger.  “Take a walk.  Cool off.  But you can’t keep doing this.  The distance, the cruelty, it isn’t _healthy_.”

“Right, because you know so damn much about being a good brother.”

The barb provokes the response that Five wants.  Luther’s back straightens further, the frustration more present on his face even as he shoots Vanya a brief, guilty glance.  “I’m trying to learn from my mistakes, Five,” Luther finally says.  “Why don’t you give it a try?”

“Fuck you,” says Five.  It’s neither clever nor biting, but it does feel damn good.

He turns away again, and his next step is accompanied by a flash of blue light and carries him out into the street. 

“Goddamn. Fucking. Idiots.” Five growls as he stalks his way down the street.  He hates them.  He hates them, he hates them, he hates them.  He thinks it again and again, hoping that the heat of his anger will burn out the guilt starting to take root.

 

Fifteen weeks and four-point-five days after they stopped the apocalypse, Five finally has to admit that he’s sulking.

He’s been hanging around the department store, sleeping in fits and bursts, circling around Delores but never letting himself get too close.  It would be too tempting if he did—to go back to her and ask her for her help.

She would know what to say.  She’d tell him what he needed to hear, even if he didn’t like it, just like she always did.  She did it when his numbers were wrong or when his equations were crap or when he was starting to act a little bit crazy.  Right now, she would probably tell him that he’s being a piece of shit and a bad brother.  She’d tell him that he’s reverting to wildly self-destructive habits, attempting to make his siblings hate him so that he can pretend that it's his choice and not theirs.  Yeah.  Yeah, she’d probably say something like that.

Theoretically.  Not that Five would know.

But the idea of admitting guilt and apologizing is…not a fun one.  Does this mean he has to apologize for _every_ cutting remark he’s made to his siblings since coming back?  It better not, since that’s more than Five can count (and he can count, as most who have met him will attest, quite high).  It’s not his fault they make it so easy.  There’s so much low-hanging fruit.  It can feel impossible for him to resist making digs at Klaus’s old drug habits, and Diego’s temper, and quite literally _everyone else’s_ intelligence.

Five is good at identifying weak spots.  At looking at an opponent and knowing where to press to get the response that he wants.  But this time, he’d done something that he hasn’t done in a long time.  He’d miscalculated—dug his fingers into an injury a little bit too hard and a little bit too deep.  He’d meant to stun, not to harm.

 _Not_ , he reminds himself sharply, _that that matters_.  He certainly has no plans to apologize either way.

 

Five doesn’t even bother opening the front door, instead warping straight from the porch to the hall outside Allison’s room.

Soft, quiet music drifts from within.  _Good_ , Five thinks, ignoring the relief that blooms in his chest.  _She’s home._

Five lifts his hand to knock, and then pauses, glancing down.  Jesus, he’s a bit of a mess.  A year ago, you wouldn’t have caught him dead in a suit that was anything less than perfectly pressed.  He’s been wearing this one for three days straight.  It’s wrinkled from power naps in between clothing racks and probably doesn’t smell great either.  Five winces and settles for just smoothing his clothes out and adjusting his blazer enough to hide his mussed-up shirt.  Ah, how the mighty have fallen.

Then he raps a fist gently on her door.  When there’s no response, he clears his throat meaningfully. 

Still nothing.  He knocks again.  Finally, he gives in and swallows his pride.  If one of the others hears, fuck it.  “Allison?” he tries, keeping his tone controlled and formal.  “I’d appreciate it if I could have a moment of your time.”

Allison’s music continues to play, and no one comes to the door.

Five suppresses the irritation that flares up in his chest.  “Right,” he says.  “I suppose that that’s not undeserved.  I just—” he glances nervously down the hall in either direction, but it doesn’t look like anyone’s in earshot.  “Wanted to…apologize, I suppose.  But I understand if you need a little time.  Just.  Let me know when you want to talk.”

Five goes back to the department store, trying to ignore the strange burning sensation in his chest.  He hangs out there until closing, at which point he goes for coffee and then warps back in once he’s sure that all the employees have cleared out for the evening.  He loses himself in his equations for a little while until he passes out while leaning against one of the displays, head pressed against the cold glass.  He wakes up again after a fitful couple hours sleep.  Works on his calculations until opening.  Goes to get more coffee.

By nine am, he can’t contain his paranoia any longer.  His phone has stayed frustratingly blank since yesterday afternoon, and the fear is starting to turn back into anger.

After _everything_ Five has done and sacrificed, is Allison really going to give up on him because of a single moment of cruelty?

Five tries to push the anger down, but it was always there— _is_ always there, just looking for something or someone to latch onto.  Now it’s bubbling up in his chest like hot tar, sticking to all his organs and burning him alive from the inside out.

Maybe she’s waiting for him to try again?  To see if he’s sorry enough to apologize _twice_?  Worse, maybe she wants him to apologize in front of everyone.  Or _to_ everyone.

Five feels a vague disdain at the idea, but at this point he has to admit that he thinks that he might do it if pressed.

And he’s tired.  Even his coffee doesn’t taste all that good right now, its bitterness made unbearable by his concern.

By ten am, Five gives up and heads home again.

“Good morning, Five,” Grace greets him when he warps into the living room. 

“Hi, mom,” he says.  “Have you seen Allison or any of the others?”

Grace tilts her head to the side thoughtfully.  “You know, I can’t say I have!  I might have just missed her, though.  You kids are so busy these days, I can hardly keep up!”

“Right,” says Five.  Has Allison been holed up in her bedroom this whole time?  Maybe they’re both being childish.  He straightens up at the thought.  In _that_ case, it is Five’s responsibility, as the older of the two, to reach out.

Five turns, about to warp away when Grace interjects. “Oh, before I forget, darling!  Package for you.”

Five pauses.  “What?”

That can’t be right.  No one knows that he lives here.  No one _should_ know.  How could they?

“I put it on the living room table for you,” Grace says.  “The man who dropped it off said it was very important.”

Five doesn’t bother listening all the way through, the world flashing blue around him as he takes a single step and appears in the living room.  And sure enough, sitting on the table is a large package, the size and shape of which makes Five go tense.  It’s wrapped perfectly in brown craft paper.

He picks it up, and the weight of it makes the world around him flicker gray.  He’d known, of course, that it couldn’t be anything else.  But the confirmation is…unpleasant.

Five is too well-trained to let his breath catch in his throat or to react to the wave of nausea that passes over him, but he notes distantly that this time, he’s finding the symptoms of panic much more difficult to repress than he normally does.

He’s so damn stupid.  How could he have missed the signs? 

In the distance, Five can still hear it.  It’s one of the only sounds audible through the awful rushing in his ears: the music drifting from Allison’s room.  It’s still along the same genre as before.  Probably because it’s the same album, played on a loop, because Allison had never turned it off or changed it.

Because she isn’t there.  She never was.  Which means that she, and likely the others too, are at least fifteen hours gone already.

He shifts his body weight just enough to send him lurching through space and into her room.  He stumbles with the hastiness of the jump, but it tells him everything that he needs to know. 

There isn’t much in the way of signs of struggle.  A chair, knocked a degree or two off from how it’s normally positioned when Allison stands up from it.  The smallest smudge of blood left against the hardwood floor.  Both left intentionally for Five to notice.  So that he would know.

All that preparation.  All the planning and stress, and he’d still gotten played.

“Fuck,” Five says lowly.  The package slips from his hands, slamming into the ground with a heavy thud.  His knees hit the floor next and he drives his fist into the hardwood soon after.  There’s the sharp, sickening crack of flesh and bone hitting an immovable surface.  “ _Fuck!”_ A wordless yell, and another strike. 

The package is right in front of him, begging to be opened.  If anyone else were here, Five would be desperately trying to salvage his pride by keeping his hands still.  But they aren’t.  Five knows with terrible certainty that none of his siblings are going to walk in on him, so he lets his fingers tremble as they pull back the paper.

The briefcase in front of him gleams black, menacing and dark.  Taped to its surface is a piece of yellow paper. 

 _Set briefcase to: 0813XX51TALT_  
_We’re_ _waiting_!  
_γ_.

Five commits the information to memory and then crumples the note in his fist.  _Gamma._ Of. Fucking. Course.

He should have guessed that this was Greg’s work—the freak.  He’d never really liked Five.  Five hadn’t really liked him either.  Not then, and certainly not _now._ Somewhere beneath the growing haze of anger there’s a sickening lurch of fear.  The Commission knows that Gamma has a propensity for…taking pleasure in the messier parts of the job.  For enjoying the hunt just as much as he enjoys the kill.  There’s no way that the decision to send him, of all agents, is a coincidence.

Five is so busy stewing in his concern and rage that he almost misses the second box.  This one is small, a fraction of the size of the first.  It’s roughly the size and shape of a ring box and wrapped neatly in the same paper as the first.  It’s been tucked under Allison’s bed, invisible to anyone who’s standing, but impossible to miss from Five’s line of sight.

Earlier, it had been difficult to resist the urge to throw up, but Five had managed.  Now there’s nothing that he can do to stop the bitter tang of bile from rising up in the back of his throat.  He’d thought…he’d hoped that he’d have more time before Gamma started playing games.

He shouldn’t open it.  Whatever’s there isn’t something that can be put back, and Five doesn’t want to think about that.  It will throw him off his game, and that will put him and his siblings in danger.  Gamma is trying to mess with Five’s most dangerous weapon—his mind—and if he opens that box he’s as good as sticking his hand into a bear trap and hoping that it snap his wrist in two.

But if one of his siblings is hurt, Five has to know.  It’s a choice that isn’t much of a choice at all.  God—who would have guessed that a day would come that someone would hand him a gun, ask him to shoot himself in the foot, and he’d actually agree to do it?

Well, he probably could have, now that he thinks about it.  He’s done a lot of dumb shit for his family, and he’s not about to stop now.

The paper comes off easily, revealing a small octagonal box.  The exterior is a purple velvet—Gamma’s passion for showmanship is clearly as strong as ever.  On the top of the box, in golden thread, is embroidered the curved, looping line of Gamma’s symbol.

And inside of it is a human eye, bloody and lovingly excised.

 

**_An Excerpt from [Target File: Five]_ **

**_Section 27D – All correspondence between XOs Shubunkin and Oranda regarding Agent Five, pulled directly from secure T.A. servers._ **

**From: ogoranda@temps.co**  
**To: r.brocade@temps.co**  
**15:34, April 25, XX46 T.A. Linear Time**  
**Subject: IRT Agent Five’s Promotion**

_S,_

_You are correct.  Five has a mind for strategy and forward-thinking that is unrivaled amongst all his peers and, quite frankly, the vast majority of his betters.  This makes him one of our best assassins and is also why increasing his rank to S at this point in time would be a dire mistake.  Five’s fixation on the apocalypse is a recurring and potentially extremely dangerous issue.  If he is playing the long con, we may not know until it is too late._

_My official recommendation is that we keep him where he is until his time is up.  If he’s truly proven himself loyal, he can choose between retirement or a pat on the back and a promotion.  But if we have even the slightest inkling that his true allegiance may be suspect, then a bullet to the back of the head is our best (and quite frankly only) recourse._

_Think on it,  
O_

**From: r.brocade@temps.co**  
**To: ogoranda@temps.co**  
**09:45, April 26, XX46 T.A. Linear Time**  
**Subject: Re: IRT Agent Five’s Promotion**

_O,_

_You are, as always, being ridiculous.  It’s not like we’re talking about promoting him to management.  And with everything he can do, he’s wasted accepting A-level missions.  Compare his work to some other agents of the same rank.  For instance: Hazel and Cha-Cha.  They’re nearly unparalleled in their field, but he can do their job in a fraction of the time without even breaking a sweat.  It’s the same reason why Hazel and Cha-Cha aren’t accepting missions that can be completed by your typical D-rank grunts.  It’s an inefficient use of our time, money, and resources.  We’ll keep an eye on him.  What’s the worst he can do?_

_Regards,  
S_

**From: ogoranda@temps.co**  
**To: r.brocade@temps.co**  
**10:00, April 26, XX46 T.A. Linear Time**  
**Subject: Re: Re: IRT Agent Five’s Promotion**

_S,_

_Something tells me that he can do plenty._

_Don’t be arrogant,  
O._

**From: r.brocade@temps.co**  
**To: ogoranda@temps.co**  
**12:53, April 26, XX46 T.A. Linear Time**  
**Subject: Re: Re: Re: IRT Agent Five’s Promotion**

_O,_

_Tell you what: we grant Five S-rank provided that he agrees to undergo genetic rehabituation.  The lab’s been meaning to try the new stuff out for ages, and no sane man would submit themselves to that if they weren’t damn committed to our cause._

_That good enough for you?  
S._

**From: ogoranda@temps.co**  
**To: r.brocade@temps.co**  
**07:00, April 27, XX46 T.A. Linear Time**  
**Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: IRT Agent Five’s Promotion**

_S,_

_I still don’t like it, but there’s clearly no changing your mind.  Do what you want._

_O._

[Note: at this point Executive Officers Oranda and Shubunkin cease conversation relevant to Agent Five, with the exception of mission assignments, for nearly 54 months.  The next relevant transmission is transcribed as follows.]

 **From: ogoranda@temps.co**  
**To: r.brocade@temps.co**  
**04:00, July 03, XX51 T.A. Linear Time**  
**Subject: IRT Agent Five’s Defection**

_S,_

_I don’t want to say I told you so, but…well, I did actually tell you so.  That is all._

_Much love,  
O._

**From: ogoranda@temps.co**  
**To: r.brocade@temps.co**  
**11:04, July 08, XX51 T.A. Linear Time**  
**Subject: Holy shit**

_S,_

_He just fucking blew up half of HQ.  I didn’t think he had it in him!  Also, did you hear that he’s small now?  I think that that makes it funnier.  I mean—it’s not_ that _funny, since I still work here—and now we_ really _have to bring him in, but what can I say?  I can’t ever pass up the opportunity to gloat._

_See you at the Friday meeting,  
O._

**From: r.brocade@temps.co**  
**To: ogoranda@temps.co**  
**11:12, July 08, XX51 T.A. Linear Time**  
**Subject: Fuck you**

_O,_

_Yeah, this really went tits up.  But also? Fuck you._

_You suck,  
S_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: aw yeah im gonna end this chapter on the really cool dramatic reveal of the eye  
> me: *realizes that ive committed myself to closing each chapter with an excerpt from five's file* oh. okay, have some emails instead.
> 
> thank you so much to everyone that commented on the first chapter!!!! i tried to respond to as many of them as i could, and i will be sure to respond if there are questions or just anything youre interested in discussing!!! comments fill my heart with joy though so if you liked the chapter/the fic come talk to me, either here or on my tumblr!! (e-vasong)
> 
> (also sorry if theres some sloppy writing or grammar/spelling errors!!! im traveling rn so copy editing time is very limited rn!!)
> 
> edit: I always forget to include some of my favorite things in the authors note!! 1-Diazidocarbamoyl-5-azidotetrazole (AKA azidoazide azide or C2N14 if you aren’t pretentious like Five) is a compound that is so sensitive that nearly any stimuli causes it to detonate, making it almost impossible to study !!


	3. the devil you know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five makes a phone call, his siblings take care of their injured, and Vanya wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is [The Devil You Know](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ZJwRslmhe0) by Blues Saraceno. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the comments--people have been truly lovely about this fic so far, and I try and respond to as many of them as I can!!
> 
> (Note, for the wary: no actual eye removal is shown in this chapter! It happens off-screen, the most that is mentioned is some blood and a character being in a lot of pain.)

Five slams the box shut and shoves it into his pocket.

Then he forces himself, with no small amount of effort, not to give it another thought.

 “Five,” says Grace when Five reappears in the living room.  “Is everything quite alright?  I heard quite the commotion from upstairs.”

 _Steady_ , Five tells himself, swallowing once in the hopes that it will clear the bitter taste from his mouth.  It doesn’t.  “It’s fine,” he says.  “But I have to do something important.”

“Oh,” Grace gives him another one of her smiles, patient and affectionate.  “Of course, dear.  Don’t let me get in your way.”

“Thanks,” he says flatly.  He steps past her, reaching for rotary phone on the table behind her.  He rips it off the hook and tries to start dialing the proper number, but his fingers, unsteady and twitchy, slip, and he hits a ‘2’ when he’d meant to hit a ‘4’. 

Five freezes.  It’s been a long time since his hands have shaken like this—since year seventeen of the Apocalypse, if he’s remembering correctly.  They didn’t shake when the Handler had found him.  They didn’t shake when he pulled the trigger on his first target.  They didn’t even shake after the operation.  He didn’t even know that he could still be this badly rattled.

It’s unacceptable.

Five takes a deep breath, letting his eyes fall shut for a moment.  Slipping back into work-mode is like second nature after nearly five years of work for the Commission.  Fear, guilt, worry—there’s a time and place for each of those things, but it isn’t here, and it isn’t now, and it certainly isn’t with him.  The job comes first, and for as long as emotions risk getting in the way, they need to take the backseat.

Five reaches for the dial again, hands steady.

Hazel picks up after three rings. 

“Hello,” says Hazel.  Five rolls his eyes at the cheer in his voice.

“How’s the birdwatching?”  Five says.

Hazel falls silent at the sound of Five’s voice.  Five can’t see the man, but Five can visualize Hazel making the same shift that he himself just had to: from a normal, family man to former contract killer.

“I hope you’re enjoying yourself,” Five continues.  “It’s been, what, _three_ weeks?”  It’s been four months, actually.  Since the day that they’d properly stopped the apocalypse.  It’s the closest thing to a warning that Five can afford to slip in, though.  If Gamma’s tapped the phone lines, Five achieves nothing by compromising Hazel too.

Hazel coughs, clearing his throat, and Five knows that he’s picked up on…something.  Hopefully the right thing.  “That’s sounds about right,” he says cautiously.  There’s a burst of static as he puts his hand over the receiver.  “No, everything’s fine.  Keep an eye out for one of those jack pine warblers for me, ‘kay?  Yeah, I’ll catch you up in just a sec.  Yeah.  Love you too.”

Five clears his throat loudly.  There’s the sound of fumbling from the other end of the line, presumably as Hazel hastily puts the receiver back to his ear.  “Sorry ‘bout that,” says Hazel.  “What can I do for you?”  There’s earnest concern in Hazel’s voice.  It’s sweet, but misplaced.  Hazel’s competent, but an agent like Gamma is still well out of his league. 

“Nothing right now,” Five says.  “I just have to deal with a problem.  It might take me a little while.  But if I don’t check back in with you in, say, two days time, could you come check up on my family?  They’re incapable of surviving without me.”

“Are you sure?” Hazel says, after a lengthy pause.  “I don’t…”

“It’s _fine_.  I don’t anticipate it being an issue.  This is just…a precaution.”

“But—”

“Will you or won’t you?”

“I—of course I will,” Hazel stutters.  “I owe you a lot.  You know that.”

Five releases a breath that he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding, his grip on the phone loosening.  “Thank you,” he says.  “Enjoy the rest of your trip.”

He slams the phone down, cutting off the beginning of what sounds like a protestation on Hazel’s end.

“Darling,” Grace begins.  “Are you sure that everything’s alright? You seem distressed.”

Of course he does.  That’s mom for you—no matter how much you regulate your external reaction, she always knows.  _A mother’s intuition_ , she’d always say, which is probably true.  Mother’s intuition and, you know, a string of code ten miles long.

“I’m fine,” he tells her.  “I just have to go.”

He’d returned to his family home with nothing but the clothes on his body.  All of his equipment is probably locked up somewhere deep in Commission facilities, which is quite the shame.  Luther had gone and bent dad’s hunting rifle in half, just to be doubly sure that Five didn’t go and murder any gardeners with it.  Utterly imbecilic, since Luther couldn’t stop Five from killing anyone at all if Five really set his mind onto it.

 _Once Five has a target in his crosshairs,_ the Handler had said once, _his chance of success is virtually 100%.  He’s a testament to the success of our method._

Five shakes the thought from his head.  He’s better than Gregory.  He knows it, and the Commission probably knows it too.  And if Agent Gamma has gone and mutilated one of Five’s siblings, then he’s made a fatal mistake. 

Five’s never dealt with anger well before, why would he start with Greg?

“Actually, mom?” he says.

Grace pauses in her dusting, delicately lowering her hand back down to her side as she turns to look at him.  “Yes, darling?” she says.

“Where does Diego keep his knives?”

 

 “A-Allison?” Diego says, voice quiet and confused.  He lifts his head blearily from Allison’s lap, and then winces in agony at the movement.  He brings a hand up to feel at the bandage, white but spotting crimson with blood, that is wrapped over his right eye.

He sounds so disoriented that Allison wants to cry.  This is almost worse than the call with Claire.  All she can do is run her hands through his hair again, pressing her fingers down on his scalp, and hope that he gets the message: _I’m here._

“Oh thank God,” breathes Klaus, who is sitting as close to Diego as he possible can without crawling on top of his prone body, leg pressed up against Diego’s side, his brother’s hand clasped in his own.

Luther, who has been twitchy and uncomfortable ever since being shocked by the bars, immediately ceases his pacing, edging closer Diego in concern.  “Is he awake?”

“Unfortunately,” says Diego, breathy with pain.  “How lo-long have I been out?”

“Roughly four hours,” says Luther.

“How the hell do you do that?” Klaus says, amusement filling his voice.  “Do you have some sort of magical internal clock that tells you precisely how many minutes have ticked by?”

“Uh,” says Luther.  He stares at the ground, massive shoulders hunching slightly.  “There wasn’t a lot to do on the moon.  So sometimes I would just sit by the window and count the seconds during the day cycle?”  His voice gets a little louder, defensive.  “I mean, it actually came in handy a few times, when some of the power cores malfunctioned and I lost my time readout, I had to keep track of how long I had before I ran out of air while I was making repairs.”

“Jesus,” Diego mutters from Allison’s lap.  “Hey, I’ve said it before but I’d like to say it again now that _everyone_ here agrees with me: dad was a total asshole.”

Allison almost cracks a smile at that.  Trust Diego to be shaken back into lucidity by an opportunity to rip on dad.  She reaches down and squeezes his shoulder lightly, hoping that he’ll take it as confirmation of her agreement. 

“Yeah,” says Klaus, voice a little higher than it was before, “well, that was not the light and funny story I thought it was going to be.  My bad.”

Luther shrugs.  Somehow, even with his bulky size, the gesture still manages to seem a little helpless.  “It was also helpful when I had to reset all the clocks once I got power back?”

Allison closes her eyes, shaking her head solemnly.

“Nope,” says Diego.

“That _does_ not make it better, big guy,” Klaus agrees.

“I—” says Luther, clearly taken off guard.  “Shouldn’t we be focusing on _Diego_ right now?”

“Damn,” says Diego.  “This is all it takes to get you to say that?  Just some light torture and a little maiming?  If I’d known that I would have done this when I was like nine.”

“Jesus,” Luther drops his forehead into his hand, looking absolutely exhausted.  Diego chuckles and then winces at the movement, letting out a low groan.  Luther’s head jerks up just as quickly as it had gone down at the sound.

“Right,” says Diego.  “Four hours, you said? Someone want to do me a favor and make it eight?”

“Absolutely not,” says Luther.

“Can’t believe I’m saying this,” says Klaus, “but I agree with Luther.  There’s only room for two people with head injuries at any one time in this family and right now those spots are occupied by Allison and me.”

“Well, f-fuck me, I guess,” says Diego.  “You guys okay?”

“Uhhh, man, yeah.  We’re not the ones who volunteered to have some psycho rip one of our eyes out.”

Allison shoots Klaus a glare.  He cringes under it.  “What?” he says.  “That’s what happened.”

“Eh,” says Diego.  “It’s fine.”

Allison resists the urge to smack him.

“No it’s not,” says Klaus, bless his heart.

“I mean,” says Diego.  “Don’t get me wrong, I’m pissed as hell.  But also?  Considering how much I play with knives, this was probably b-bound to happen eventually.”

Luther snorts.  “He has a point.”

Allison pauses, considering.  Luther is not currently suffering from massive blood loss, which—though she loves him—makes him a much more acceptable person to smack. 

She reaches up and punches the nearest part of him she can reach.

“Ow!” says Luther, even though there’s no way in hell that that hurt him.

“Why is this the thing you guys agree on?” Klaus laments.

Allison rolls her eyes.  Diego, for his part, starts to laugh.

“Oh boy,” says Klaus.

“What?” says Diego.

“That wasn’t very funny,” Klaus informs him.  “You have definitely lost too much blood.”

“Oh.”

Allison can’t keep herself from sighing, running her hands through Diego’s hair again.  She isn’t sure if it’s supposed to be a comfort to him or to her.  Definitely one of the two, that’s for sure.

“Eyes front, everyone,” says Luther, and Allison’s head jerks up just in time to register the sound of the door to the outer chamber creaking open.

“Everyone except Diego!” Klaus chimes, and Luther sighs heavily.

“Everyone except Diego,” he agrees.

 _Really?_ Allison signs, more to herself than anyone else.  Her exasperation evaporates at the sight of their captor, though, replaced by a slow, simmering anger.

God, what she wouldn’t give to have her voice back right now.  To say _I heard a rumor that you let us out of this cell and then stood very, very still so I could kick the shit out of you._

“He’s awake!” The man who had introduced himself as Gamma sounds delighted.

“Yeah,” Klaus snarls from behind Luther, still clasping hands with Diego on the ground.  “No thanks to you.”

“Please,” says Gamma.  The women’s sunglasses are propped up on his head now, revealing piercing blue eyes.  “I’ve done that procedure hundreds of times.  He’ll be fine.”

“That _procedure_?” Luther growls.  “You cut his damn eye out!”

Gamma arches a brow, looking surprised.  “And what would you call it?”

“Torture?” Klaus supplies helpfully.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Gamma drawls.  “That was _not_ torture.”  He pauses then, narrowing his eyes and peering more closely at Klaus.  “Aren’t you the one that Hazel and Cha-cha grabbed?  Shouldn’t you know a thing or two about it?  I mean, they aren’t _me_ , but I didn’t think that they were that bad.”

 _What?_ Allison mouths.  Klaus ignores both that and the sharp look that Luther sends him.

 “Meh,” says Klaus.  “I was a little busy coming down from my drug haze for the first time in like twelve years.  You think being choked out is rough? Please.  Being choked out is _fun._ Giving up heroin is rough.”  Klaus tilts his head off to the side, presumably, Allison thinks, towards Ben.  “Oh, shut up.”

Then Klaus smiles up at Gamma, wide and unpleasant.  Gamma doesn’t seem to take it personally.  Instead, he shrugs.  “Fair enough,” he says gamely.  “Kudos to you.  How long you been clean?”

The sheer casual, friendliness of it throws Allison for a loop.  Even Klaus looks a little taken aback, blinking up at Gamma with guarded surprise.  “Four months,” he says, and then looks surprised at the words coming out of his own mouth, as if they’d been startled out of him.

“Hey! Nice job, man,” Gamma enthuses.  “Do you get a token for that?”

“Um, yes?  Don’t have it on me, though.  It’s at home.”

“Huh?” says Diego, lifting his head up from Allison’s lap.  “You’re actually going to your meetings?”

Allison is so surprised that she doesn’t even push Diego’s head back down into her lap.  Her lips fall open, wanting shape words that she knows won’t come.  She shuts her mouth with an irritated click.

“You didn’t tell us?” Luther sounds genuinely hurt, his eyes wide and surprised.

“I—what does it matter?” Klaus splutters.  “Also, is _now_ really the time for a family confessional?  I mean, is it _really_?  Are we actually interested in doing this in front of…” he gestures vaguely in Gamma’s direction.

Gamma lifts one hand in a small, listless shrug.  “I don’t mind,” he says.  “Good way to kill the time.”

“Yeah, you do realize that that’s weird, right?  Isn’t fraternizing with hostages usually a bad idea?” Klaus is somehow getting sharper and more indignant.  Gamma seems to be taking it in stride for now, but Allison’s not willing to see how far the man’s good will extends.  Especially with Klaus, who has always been so good at pressing buttons and pushing boundaries.

The mental image of Klaus, face slick with blood like Diego’s had been, materializes in Allison’s mind and hits her like a bullet, sending a shudder through her.  She reaches out, putting the hand that isn’t currently cradling Diego’s head on Klaus’s shoulder.  She hopes that he gets the message: half _please shut up_ and half _I love you_ and one hundred percent _I’m about to kick your goddamn ass, I swear to God_.

Gamma doesn’t seem bothered.  “It’s not your fault that you had the shit luck of landing Epsilon as a brother,” he says.

Allison can feel herself bristling, and judging from the way Diego goes tense against her and both Klaus and Luther straighten up indignantly, she’s not the only one who is taking exception.  Gamma’s insistence on calling Five by that damn code-name is irritating, but even worse is the active disdain in his voice.  Five is a little shit, that’s for sure, but he is still leagues better than this guy.

“His name is Five,” Luther says.  There’s a warning in his voice.  It’s futile, of course, but Allison likes to think that Five would appreciate it if he knew.

Gamma rolls his eyes.

“To you, maybe,” he says.  “But I knew him as Epsilon.”

“Through the Commission?” Diego’s remaining eye is squinting suspiciously.

“Code names are standard procedure for agents rank B and above.”

Luther tilts his head to the side.  “What rank was Five?”

“Same as me,” Gamma smiles, too wide and too toothy.  “S, which is about as high as it goes without entering management.  Our callsigns are all derived from the Ionic alphanumeric system, which means that there’s an extremely limited number of us at a time.  You should be proud!  He climbed the ranks fast.  Too bad he played his cards poorly at the end there.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Klaus is getting twitchy under Allison’s grip.  She tightens her hold slightly, hoping desperately that she can ground him with human contact alone.

Gamma clicks his tongue.  “That, unfortunately, is for me to know and Five to find out.  It’s a real shame, too.  I think management might have just let him go, otherwise.”  He pauses, glancing at his watch.  “Speaking of, he’ll probably be here sooner rather than later.  I better go prepare the welcome party.”

“Whatever,” says Klaus spitefully as Gamma turns his back.  “Good luck holding onto the little bastard.”

“Thanks,” says Gamma, glancing over his shoulder.  “I’ll need it.  He’s a slippery little shit.”

“I—” Klaus gapes, stunned into silence.  “Well, I—that was _sarcasm_ , asshole!”

“You’re talking to a closed door,” Diego groans, dropping his head back into Allison’s lap with a hiss and a wince. 

“What a dick!” Klaus says in lieu of a response.

“Why would they change their minds about letting Five go?” Luther says thoughtfully.

“It doesn’t matter,” says Klaus.

“Of course it matters,” Diego tilts his head in Klaus’s direction, looking vexed.  “Five’s annoying but we can’t exactly let them kill him.”

Allison pulls Klaus towards her, and he shifts in her direction, attention successfully caught.

“Yes, sister dear?”

She frowns at him.  _What were you doing?_ she signs.

“Talking to him?”

“You were provoking him,” Luther says with a frown.  “Allison’s right.  That could have been dangerous.  For you and for the rest of us.”

Klaus rolls his eyes so hard that Allison is surprised it doesn’t aggravate his head injury—her own is still aching something fierce.  “Well, that’s easy,” Klaus says, and the smile that spreads across his face.  “I wasn’t provoking him—I was distracting him.  The distinction is everything, brother.”

It takes Allison a moment to follow Klaus’s gaze.  When she does, she finds Vanya—still lying so still and quiet on her uncomfortable metal table.

And her IV—the drip dangling from its metal stand, and the needle hanging from the plastic tubing, distinctively _not_ sticking out of Vanya’s arm.

Well, _shit_! Allison smacks Klaus in the shoulder—he startles, looking alarmed until he takes in the wide grin on her face.  Then he smiles back, eyes bright and happy.  “Yeah, yeah,” he says.  “I know, you’re welcome!”

“Great job, Klaus,” says Diego.  The praise isn’t very energetic, but he’s definitely trying his best, and Allison can hardly fault Diego for being sedate, all things considered. 

“How’d you do that?” Luther’s eyes are wide.  “I thought you said you didn’t have the energy to manifest Ben?”

“I don’t,” says Klaus.  “Not fully.  But then I realized I didn’t need Ben to manifest fully.  He just needed to be present enough to touch one thing.  He didn’t even need to be visible.”

“You couldn’t have done that earlier?” Diego grouses.

Klaus pulls a face.  “A little gratitude would be nice!  I’m still figuring this thing out, okay?  I’ve been working on doing this much for the past hour and a half.”

“Ugh, fair enough,” Diego says.

 _You’re the best_ , Allison signs.

Klaus preens under the praise.  “I only have one sibling,” he tells Luther and Diego, and then winces suddenly from something that the rest of them can’t see.  “Two!  Two!  I have two siblings!  Geez, sorry!”

Allison can’t help the silent laugh that escapes her.

Ten years gone by without Ben, and she can still visualize precisely where he’d be standing in relation to the rest of them.  Somewhere between Klaus and Vanya.  His arms would be crossed over his chest, expression walking the line between exasperated and fond.  He might say _“Really, Klaus?”_ or _“Cool, guess I’m never helping you out again.”_

The way her heart aches is almost too much to bear.  What she wouldn’t give to have more than just the _knowledge_ that Ben is standing right there.

“It’ll probably be at least an hour before she wakes up,” Klaus finally says.  “But if anyone can break us out of this godawful cell, it’s her.”

 

Vanya comes back to the world in bits and pieces.  Her toes and fingers come first, something cold and uncomfortable beneath them, though she doesn’t understand why.  Then comes the pain in her back, the sort of ache that comes from laying in a bad position for too long.  She doesn’t understand that either, not present enough to process anything about the discomfort beyond the fact that it’s there. 

“Hey Vanya,” Klaus is hissing at her.  “Don’t freak out when you wake up, okay?”

Don’t freak out?

That’s right, it’s bad when she freaks out.  Her control over her powers is evolving, but it’s imperfect.  If she handles it even slightly wrong, the consequences could potentially be fatal. 

But why would Klaus be scared of her freaking out?  Vanya tries to cast her mind back, trying to scour her memories for anything that she might have missed.  She’d been…she’d been out for a walk after the fight—the fight with Five.  She remembers that much, but everything after that point just dissolves into inky darkness. 

She should ask Klaus.  Then she can reassure him that she won’t make the same mistakes again, that she’s not going to hurt anyone who doesn’t deserve to be hurt. 

But she can’t open her eyes.  And her limbs are strangely heavy, they’re not moving no matter how hard she tries to tell them too. 

“Klaus,” she tries to say, but all that comes out is a small, strangled noise. 

She feels dull and murky.  It’s almost like how her old medication had made her feel, except worse.  Like she’s being held under the surface of a cloudy body of water, numb and blind and unable to do anything other than choke.

 _No_ , she thinks.  She doesn’t want to feel the way that she used to.  Her powers are scary, and the weight of having almost caused to apocalypse sometimes feels like too much to live with.  But there are good things about the way everything is now.  The way her siblings talk to each other and to her, again.  The sheepish, ashamed way Luther had apologized her.  Allison’s quiet sisterhood and unquestioning forgiveness.  Klaus’s companionship, quiet and chaotic all at once, and the occasional conversation with Ben when Klaus feels up to materializing him.  Five, and the strange little dance he does—pulling away from them all only to move in close again.  The way that her new pills take the edge off the anxiety and sadness without carving out all the passion and joy from inside her.  Things are not perfect, but they’re _better_ , and that’s good enough for her.

She makes another desperate noise from deep in her throat.  Her body jerks but it doesn’t respond.  _No_ , she thinks, an edge of panic cutting through the haze like a knife.  _No, no, no._ This is like the cage, but even more cramped.  She’s confined only to her body.  She _can’t even open her eyes_.  It is dark, and it is cold, and she is alone, and she can’t…she can’t breathe.

She can’t breathe.

She can’t breathe.

She.

Can’t.

Brea—

“Woah, woah, woah,” says a voice.  It’s so familiar, but it’s like she’s listening to it from underwater.  Is it…could it be Diego?  “Vanya?”

“Shh.  Hey, shhh…” That’s Klaus.  “Vanya, it’s okay.”

“Move one thing at time,” Luther, straightforward and practical.  “Start with your fingers, Vanya.”

The idea of trying to move anything successfully sounds impossible, but Vanya grabs onto the sound of her siblings’ voices.  It means something that they’re here, that she can hear them, even though she’s not sure what.  The fact that she can hear them at all, though, means that she’s not back in there.

That they didn’t put her back in there.

And if she freaks out and they’re here…then they could get hurt.

So she needs to listen.  She needs to listen to them and do what they tell her.  But what had…what had Luther been asking her to do?  She needs to move her…

Oh! Her fingers.  Fingers.  Yes, she can do this.  She wants to.  She hones in on them, the cool metal underneath them, and focuses as hard as she can, and absolutely nothing happens.

 _No,_ Vanya thinks, another strangled, desperate noise crawling its way out of her throat.  It’s halfway to a sob, and Vanya is, in some small part of the back of her mind, embarrassed. 

“Don’t rush it,” Luther again.  “Just focus, and don’t be scared when it doesn’t happen right away.  It’s going to take a little time.”

Vanya’s fingers are cold.  But even for that, the metal table beneath them is like ice.  It cuts through her skin like dozens of small needles, and Vanya doesn’t want to touch it anymore.

Her fingers twitch.

“Great job,” says Luther.  “Now your toes.”

They go on like that for a while.  Her toes, then her hands and her feet, and then curling an arm, and then so on and so forth until Vanya is finally sitting up.  It’s not entirely steady—she has to brace herself against the IV pole to keep from listing over again, but soon enough it will be.  She already feels more awake, like her body is starting to remember itself and come back alive again. 

“Diego,” she says.  Her voice is raspy, her mouth and throat dry. 

“Hey Vanya,” he says.  Vanya’s grip on the metal pole tightens at the sight of white bandages in the place where his right eye used to be.

“Just give me a moment,” she promises him.  She’ll get him out of here.  She’ll get them all out.

 _Are you hurt?_ Allison signs.

Vanya shakes her head.  “I feel a little weird,” she says.  “But I think that that’s just…” she glances over at the bag hanging off of the hook and then scowls.  “You sure I can’t take this thing out yet?” She glances down at the mess of tape on her inner arm.

“Better not yet,” says Luther.  “It’ll bleed.”

“And Diego’s already done enough of that,” Klaus says.

“Ha ha,” Diego says dryly.  “Sure, let’s poke fun at _my_ expense, shall we?”

“He stuck us in different cells,” Vanya says.

“Presumably so we couldn’t unhook you from the IV ourselves,” says Luther.

“Joke’s on him,” says Klaus, grinning wryly.  “You were never alone in there.”

“Thanks, Ben,” Vanya says to the empty air around her.  It’s bewildering to think that the brother that they all mourned, the brother who’d stood at their family’s core for so long that his death shattered the rest of the tenuous bonds between them and set them adrift, has been here all along.  She’d used to comfort herself with his absence, as twisted as it sounds.  But it did help, to think that Ben wasn’t there to see what a mess they’d all made of themselves.  Now that she knows that he had been there after all, she sometimes wonders if he’d ever been ashamed of them.  The family that he’d loved so much in life using his death as an excuse to self-destruct.

She’ll never ask him herself, but she hopes that he’s proud of where they are now.

“You’re welcome,” says Klaus, and then his eye twitches.  “He also says ‘finally, someone with manners’—I think that one’s directed at us, Diego.”

“Why is everyone ganging up on me now?”

“To be fair, Ben is the only person in this damn family who can make fun of us no matter how badly we’re hurt.”

“…point taken.”

“Klaus, Diego,” Luther clears his throat.  “Focus.”

“Fuck off,” says Diego.

“You’re not my dad,” says Klaus.  “And thank God for that.”

Luther sighs.

Allison meets Vanya’s gaze through the bars.  The long-suffering glance that passes between them has been all too common over the past few months.  Vanya can’t see Ben, but she likes to think that he’s joining in.  He never had very much interest in Diego and Luther’s posturing, or in Klaus’s resolute desire to avoid taking anything seriously.

“You ready, Vanya?” says Luther.

Vanya gives him a smile, tenuous and uncomfortable.  “Guess we’ll find out,” she says.  “Because I’m not about to sit here and let this asshole, whoever he is, use us to take Five.”

“Fuck yeah,” says Klaus, pushing himself up off the ground and then bouncing on the balls of his feet.  “Okay, Vanya, blow this bitch the fuck open.”

“God, I wish it were that easy,” Vanya mutters, but turns her gaze to the bars in front of them anyways.

She closes her eyes, letting the ambient noise roll over her.  Sometimes, she still hears Leonard’s voice when she does this.  It makes her vaguely nauseous, but it’s hard not to when he was the person who helped her rediscover her powers in the first place.  It’s happening less and less, though.  Every day she replaces one of Leonard’s words of advice with something from one of her siblings.

Right now there’s the sound of her heartbeat, unsteady with nerves, and of the blood coursing through her veins.  There’s the sound of the breaths whooshing out of her siblings’ bodies—Diego’s shallower and more pained than the others.  Four heartbeats, strong and steady.  That, more than the sound of their voices, is grounding.

The bars around them are _crackling_ —alive and electric with stored energy.  Vanya focuses in on that noise.  There’s something sharp about it.  It screams _unpleasant but powerful_ , and that’s what Vanya’s looking for right now.

 _Alright, Vanya,_ Grace’s voice echoes in her mind.  _Focus on the noise, and then pull it towards you_.  _Hold it, and then push it wherever you want it to go, as_ hard _as you want it to go.  Tap into your emotions, but only so much as you think will be productive._

Diego’s harsh breathing is still needling at the edges of Vanya’s awareness.  With each pained exhale Vanya can feel the crackling noise in her ears grow sharper and sharper.  She thinks, briefly, of Five, alone and targeted by this assassin, and the noise magnifies exponentially.  Vanya pulls back immediately, forcing her to focus her thoughts solely on Diego rather than both of her brothers.

Diego’s hurt.  He’s in pain and that makes Vanya afraid.

Even more than that, it makes her _angry_. 

Vanya gathers it all up, the emotion and noise and the uncertainty, and she balls it up, compressing it into something tight and dangerous.

And then she lets it go.

The recoil of it knocks her onto her butt.  She presses her eyes shut against the thunderous noise and the dust that rises into the air.

When she opens them again, the front portions of their cells are completely gone—metal broken off into jagged edges, easily climbed over. 

The door on the far wall has also been torn off its hinges, portions of the surrounding wall have been reduced to dust, creating an entrance through which even Luther could pass with generous room above the head and around the shoulders.

“Oh,” says Vanya.

“Huh,” says Luther.  “I was thinking that you could just break the locks or something, but this works too.”

“Really, Luther?” says Diego.  “Vanya is either destroying nothing at all or entire city blocks.  Why on earth did you think she was going to spontaneously develop a middle slider?”

“Who cares?” says Klaus, stepping over a pile of rubble.  “This is one hell of a way to stage an escape.”

 

**_An Excerpt from [Target File: Five]_ **

**_Section 3F – Psychological Assessment: Standard Protocol Evaluation Prior to Medical Procedure_ **

**_Dated: May 16, XX46 T.A. LinearTime_ **

Dr. Schultz: Good evening, Five.  Can I call you that?

Five: What else would you call me?

Dr. Schultz:  Agent Five?

Five: Cute.  And unnecessary.

Dr. Schultz: Calling you ‘agent’?

Five: No.  _This._

Dr. Schultz: I…don’t see what you mean?

Five: Can we cut to the chase here, Doctor?

Dr. Schultz: There’s nothing to cut to, Five.  Think of this like an interview!  There’s been a lot of buzz about your potential for promotion, but we want to make sure you’re prepared, not just physically but psychologically, for some of the procedures that you may have to undergo.

Five: Yeah, yeah.  Doctor, the euphemisms are starting to get a bit tiring.  You guys want to cut me open and play with my insides for a bit.  It’s fine.

Dr. Schultz: Five, our primary concern is—of course—your wellbeing.

Five: Holy _shit_ , you’re a bad liar.  No, it’s not.  Your primary concern is the Commission’s bottom line, and, oh, don’t make that face.  If you were paying attention, I already said that I don’t care.  It.  Is.  Fine.   I _know_ what you guys are cooking up in your little lab, and I’ll be honest, it’s pretty disgusting.  But both you and I know that I’m going to get approved for this.  Whatever gives my body the ability to jump through time and space means that I, unlike every other idiot in this shithole, actually have the ability to survive your little experiments.  I know how badly you all want this data, and as far as I know, _I’m the only one of me that you’ve got._ Ipso facto, this little formality has no impact on whether or not I’ll be approved.  Your interest in my mental health and in…informed consent, or whatever such nonsense, isn’t going to trump that.

Dr. Schultz: …Fair enough.  But you’re wrong on—[Five scoffs]—one account.  You said it yourself: you’re the only one of you we’ve got.  And we are…very interested in some of your properties.  The procedures you would go through if—and that _is_ an if—you are approved will be…very intrusive and potentially…well, you’re of no use to us if you die of shock, or if you’ve been reduced to a babbling, broken mess. 

Five: Mm, I suppose I see the dilemma here.

Dr. Schultz: I’m glad that we’re finally on the same page, now—

Five: Doctor, can I borrow that pen?

Dr. Schultz: I’m sorry, what?

Five: Your _pen_.  The one in the front pocket of your coat?

Dr. Schultz: Oh.  I suppose.  Here.  [Rustling] What did—[thudding noise]—oh my God!

[Outside voices]: Schultz, you okay? [Inaudible] happened?

 Dr. Schultz: I-um. _I’m_ fine.  But uh, Agent Five, uh—do be sure to record this—just uncapped my pen and stabbed my desk with it.  Through his hand.  Which is…currently still pinned to the wood.

Five: [calmly] It’s fine.  It’s [laughter] fine.  Just add it to the list of things to fix while you’re toying with my intestines, hm?

Dr. Schultz: You do realize that there probably won’t be any actual…touching of your intestines, right?  You keep mentioning that.

Five: Oh?  Are you _sure_? You can if you want.  [More laughter].

Dr. Schultz: …Jesus. 

**Conclusion: Five is unstable, volatile, uncooperative, and prone to childish fits of temper, along with presenting dozens of potentially problematic symptoms, all of which have been disclosed in detail in other psych evaluations.  He is, however, also fully-consenting and in the possession of a nearly inhuman pain tolerance.**

**Official recommendation: Five is fit for procedure.  Begin at earliest convenience.  Minimal anesthetics suggested for most detailed results.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> props to those who guessed that one to lose their eye would be Diego!!! to those familiar with the comics, it might become apparent at this point that a lot of the events in this fic are incorporating/re-contextualizing some of the things from the comics in a way that i think would be interesting for show canon. :D
> 
> thanks for reading !
> 
> Edit: ps—who can catch the TAZ reference?? ;)


	4. there's a cold breeze blowing over my soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five's bad day continues to not be great, Diego has a headache, and knives get drawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: i had buffer chapters written for this fic. then microsoft word spontaneously deleted them!!! now i no longer have buffer chapters written for this fic. how cool!!! *breaks down crying*
> 
> the good news is that i already wrote those chapters and know where theyre going??? and previously ive had good luck writing one buffer chapter for each chapter that i post, so hopefully it wont mess things up too much??? but thats my life rn. thank you so much to everyone who commented, kudos'd, etc. last chapter for giving me the energy to move past that set back asdfghjkl!!!
> 
> Chapter Title is from [Animal Impulses](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kmFM4S21Cjw) by IAMX

“Oh, are you sure about this, Five?” Grace frowns.  “It’s important for you all to be respectful of each other’s personal property.”

“He gave me permission.  I asked.”  It’s a blatant lie, but Grace’s programming doesn’t pick up on it.  Five is entirely confident in what needs to be done, and that is enough to keep his heartrate level and his breathing steady.

So now two of Diego’s knives sit snugly in the small of Five’s back, tucked into a harness (also filched from Diego’s room) that Grace had quickly and efficiently brought down to size for him.

Also hidden in his jacket is a Beretta 92FS, found in one of their father’s desk drawers.  Five had admittedly, been a bit surprised to find it there.  It isn’t a hunting weapon, or an antique, as most of the armaments their father had gathered in life were.  It wasn’t anything fancy or overpriced either.  It was just practical and effective.  That combined with how their father had kept it somewhere it would nearly always be in reach means that Five can only really draw one conclusion from its presence: their father had meant this weapon for self-defense.

Self-defense.  Not inherently troublesome in and of itself, but the implications it carries are far too unfortunate to be lost on Five.

After all, what need would a man have for a gun in a house full of superheroes?

Unless, of course, Sir Reginald Hargreeves had anticipated the possibility of wanting to use it on one of them.

It’s a bit ridiculous.  Luther, Diego, Klaus, and even Vanya, it _might_ have worked on, as long as he took them by surprise.  But not definitely, and not on _all_ of them.

And what?  Had their father truly anticipated being able to open his desk, draw his weapon, and then put a bullet between Allison’s eyes in the mere breath she needed to overwhelm the human mind and bend reality to her will?

Had he truly thought that something as small as a bullet could put Ben, of all people, down?  

The choice to get a gun would have been nothing but a futile act, rooted in fear rather than logic.  If their father’s ironclad psychological control over his children had faltered, and they’d for some reason gotten it into their heads that they wanted him dead, there was no gun on the face of the planet that would have kept him safe. 

He had just been a man, after all.  A cruel one, yes, but a coward too, if this is anything to go by.

Of course, Five has no plans to tell his family about the gun.  Luther—who had been the last holdout on their father’s side—may finally understand that Reginald Hargreeves had never loved them more than he had loved his aspirations for the Umbrella Academy, but Five isn’t so cruel as to tell his siblings that their father had been willing to kill them at a moment’s notice, especially now that the man is dead and gone.

Five will, however, settle for the feeling of satisfaction that forms low in his stomach when he thinks about taking this weapon—meant to hurt his siblings, meant to _kill_ them—and using it to save them instead.  There’s a certain poetry to it that even he can appreciate.

It’s almost enough to make the entire ordeal worthwhile.

And just like that, the chill returns to Five’s bones. 

There’s no point in delaying any longer, he supposes.

The suitcase sits on the table in front of him, sleek and ugly under the light.  Five runs his hands along its sides and then smooths his fingers along the top of it.  He loathes having to do this, especially when he has no idea where it will take him and thus, no way to properly prepare. 

Strategically it is, of course, a good choice on Gregory’s part, but damn if it isn’t a pain in Five’s ass.

Five takes a deep breath, bracing himself against both the worst-case scenario (being dropped right into, say, a pit of lava) and the nauseating pull of a briefcase jump. 

He opens the briefcase and—

Lands on both feet in front of the Commission’s planar headquarters. 

The cobblestone is as smooth and flawless as he remembers—the building as magnificent and daunting as ever. 

Sitting atop a small hill, reachable by a massive staircase, the Commission’s planar headquarters is all smooth, white rock, the entrance arched and supported by towering Doric columns.  An antebellum mansion of gorgeous, white marble, alone in a bubble of air on a rock in space, stars and nebulae swirling around it, colors so vibrant that they nearly look unreal. 

“Ah, shit,” Five says, setting the briefcase down at the foot of the steps.  Talk about _right into the lion’s den_.  Gamma couldn’t have picked a more unfortunate place—Five honestly would have preferred the lava. 

He doesn’t bother jumping across the stairs, numerous as they are.  Something about having to calculate his jumps in relation to the speed of the space rock’s movement makes his body rebel against him—makes him nauseous and overtired dangerously quickly.  Gamma couldn’t have known that, though.  Five had taken great care to make sure that that information had never spread beyond.  He is the only one who knows.

Well, okay.  Him, and perhaps the woman who’s blouse he’d thrown up on that one time.

Gamma may not know about it, but it works to his advantage nonetheless.  Five will have to be…circumspect about his warping while here, a dangerous limitation while in one of the headquarters of an organization that wants him dead.

Five pushes the front door open.

Disorientingly modern considering the building’s stylish, antiquated exterior, the inside of the building is just as Five recalls it being, though it is considerably emptier than usual.  Cleared out, perhaps, in the expectation of violence.

“Oh, hello!” The only person in the room, a young man sitting behind the front desk, waves his hand to catch Five’s attention.  “What do you need?”

Five smiles, not bothering to move from his place by the door.  “I’d like to check in as a visitor,” he says.

“Certainly,” the man says.  He reaches up and brushes a strand of curly, red hair out of his face as he leans over his computer with an expression of consternation.  “Can I get your name please?”

Five tilts his head to the left.  “Number Five,” he says.

The way that the blood immediately drains from the secretary’s face is predictably enjoyable. 

“Oh,” the man says limply, watching Five saunter lazily closer.  “I-I—”

He tries to stand, but Five, practically at his desk by now, clicks his tongue in disapproval.  “Oh, none of that,” he says, crossing the table and grabbing the man by the shoulders.

Five shoves him back into his seat with little preamble.  The secretary is shaking like a leaf, perspiration slicking his brow and making it shine under the building’s lights. 

Five ignores it.  “Where are they?” he says simply.

“Wh-who?” the secretary gasps.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Five whips the knife on the left from its sheath and presses it against the secretary’s jugular.  The man goes tense.  “Don’t waste my time, please.  I’m having a bad day, so life will be a hell of a lot nicer for the both of us if you just tell me what I want to know.  My family.  Where.   _Now.”_

“I-I-I’m not,” the man gasps.  “I literally just man the front desk, and I—” Five digs the knife in a little, droplets of blood starting to ooze out across the silver blade, and the man squirms.  “But-but if they have your family they will…probably be on one of the sublevels.  It’s the only place where we have-where we have containment units.”

“That’s _all_ you know?” Five leans forward, letting his body weight do some of the work in making sure that the knife’s presence is known.  The secretary nods frantically. 

“I-I swear,” he says. “Please.”

Five narrows at his eyes, staring at him for a long moment.  The man knows, clearly, how close he is to death.  How little effort it would take to drive Diego’s knife, thin and sharp, into his carotid artery, and stop the pulse fluttering under his skin.

“Good enough,” Five says, and drops him.  “Call security if you want, but I presume…” he gives a meaningful glance to one of the cameras in the room’s corner, red light blinking away, “that they already know.”

He starts walking away and then hesitates, throwing one last look over his shoulder.  The secretary flinches, scrabbling backwards.  “Oh, and by the way?” Five smiles.  “Quit.  Get a new job, or, I don’t know, fucking unionize at least.  The pay here is _shit._ And, I mean, they left you here to die and you don’t even get worker’s comp.    

“Um,” says the secretary.

Five shrugs, turning his back again.  “Think about it,” he suggests, and then he takes his leave.

 

There are men waiting for him in the stairs.  Five had anticipated nothing less, so the knife is conveniently still in his hand when he swings open the door to the stairs down and finds himself face-to-face with a small mob of black-clad figures.

He stares at them for a long moment, evaluative.  They stare back, six members of Commission security, all in heavy tactical gear.  Two are stationed directly in front of the door down to sublevel one, and the other four are positioned in the narrow stairwell between him and the first door. Each one is carrying a standard issue submachine gun

There are several long beats—Five considering the security team, and the security team faltering, unwilling to make the first move.

Their loss.

Five steps fully into the stairwell.  The door swings shut behind him, and he pulls the second knife from its sheath.  He twirls the blades in his hands, readjusting his grip as he reminds himself of their balance. 

“Okay then,” he says, “let’s fight.”

There’s no point in wasting time.  Five warps to the center of the stairwell.  It’s jumping right into the mess of things, leaving three security guards positioned on each of his sides, but Five isn’t in the mood to play his usual games right now.

“Hi,” he tells them, as the two closest to him rear back with a shout. 

There’s the telltale sound of guns lifting, fingers twitching on triggers, but no gunfire.  Five smiles.  The narrow stairwell is to his disadvantage.  The less familiar he is with a location, the more he relies on a line of sight to jump.  Crowding a small, bent area with people exploits that weakness well.  But it also means that if he plays his cards right, it will be damn hard for them to shoot at him without shooting one another, and Five _fully_ intends to play his cards right.

He turns towards the man a couple steps up from him and stabs a knife into his shoulder, driving the blade home through one of the narrow cracks in his body armor.  The man’s yell is lost as the blue light of a warp envelops them both, carrying them back to the top of the stairs.

And Five back into a clear line of fire.

Until, that is, he pivots—just in time to put the man on his knife in the way of the hail of bullets headed their way. 

The body armor is good, but it was not built in anticipation of friendly fire.  The man jerks violently and then goes still, slumping forwards heavily.  Five grunts under the weight, and then plants one foot on the dead man’s stomach and pushes hard.  The man slides off the knife with wet noise and topples limply down the stairs, directly into one of his companions.

The man’s compatriot curses, catching the fallen man’s weight for a moment before shrugging him off.  It’s only a momentary distraction.  It’s enough.  They glance back up at the top of the stairs, swearing when they find it empty. 

They turn just in time to catch a knife to the base of the neck. 

Five pulls the knife free, turning his back to them as they clutch at the blood spurting from their throat.  The blades gleam red in his hands. 

The survivors regard him nervously.

Five takes out the two by the door next.

They don’t anticipate him warping there.  It puts him in the most vulnerable position—not some place that one typically wants to be when you have an automatic weapon pointed in your direction (much less four). 

It also means that there’s a moment of surprise when he does, in fact, warp there, and really, that’s _all_ Five needs. 

Five drives the knife into an exposed spot on the leg of the guard on the left, slicing through muscle and the femoral artery.  They make a guttural, pained noise, pressing their hands helplessly against their leg before listing off to the side.  They’ll die quickly, but Five doesn’t stand still to watch the bleedout process.  He turns, pulling one blade out from the first guard’s thigh as he drives the other into a spot beneath the second guard’s ribs.

By the time the two guards higher up the staircase realize that he’s moved, locate him, and then re-aim their weapons, the guards by the door are already flat on the floor, and Five is pulling that familiar blue light around his body once more.

Of the two left, the one closest to him doesn’t have time to react again before Five is there, jamming a blade through the side of his head.

The final guard recoils.  They drop the gun and brace their hands around their neck, expecting Five to move in close to take a swipe at them with a knife, and preparing to defend against it.

They are not, however, prepared to deal with bullet that Five puts through their base of their skull.

Five sighs, tucking the Beretta back into its place in his jacket.  He bends down by the man he’d stabbed in the face, who is, disturbingly, still alive.  Twitching madly, eyes rolling about in his head, but alive.

Five winces.  “Sorry,” he says to the man absently.  Sloppy work, kills made unclean by an edge of desperation. There’s no real justification.  It’s easily taken care of with a quick twist and the snap of bone, but it’s not the sort of thing that he likes to do often.

He pulls the knife free, and then wipes both blades on the corpse’s tactical gear.  It’s a futile act, considering that both weapons are inevitably going to get dirtied up again soon enough.  Probably even by the next room.

Still though, he crouches there a moment longer, clearing the blades of the blood.  When he’s finally done, he turns his head, once again, towards the security camera.  He stares up at it, where its nestled in between the wall and the ceiling, red light boring down on him.

“You know,” he says, bored, “I’m a little insulted that you didn’t come fight me yourself.  I thought we had a bit of mutual respect going on.  Disappointing—though I suppose your work is rarely anything but.”

 

“The little shit,” Gregory says as he stares at the live feed.  Epsilon finishes cleaning his knives—the precise same ones that Gregory had used to mutilate his brother, and _oh_ if the parallelism of that doesn’t just tickle Gregory pink. 

But the message has been received.  Epsilon is too smart to know that Gregory can be goaded.  But the arrogant tone, the challenge, the poisonous, shark-like grin, are intended for one purpose and one purpose only.

To tell Gregory that he isn’t afraid.  That he’s annoyed at best.

That he’s playing Gregory’s game and that he doesn’t expect to lose.

Gregory hopes that Epsilon likes surprises.

“Um,” says Dani, who’s standing by the coffee machine, dark hair falling in her face as she anxiously watches the coffee brew.  “Dude’s got a point, Gamma my man.  Real bitch-ass move letting the lower-level grunts take the hits for you.”

Gregory shrugs.  “I’m not _suicidal_ ,” he says.  Gregory takes a sip of his drink, fumbling to get the straw into his mouth without taking his eyes off the screen.  “Someone has to tire him out for me.  Also, I think you can call me Greg when I’m off the job.”

Dani gives him a strange look.  Or at least, Gregory _thinks_ that the look is made for him, but it’s hard to tell for sure when she doesn’t peel her eyes away from the _drip-drip-dripping_ of the coffee.  “You _are_ on the job, dumbass.”

“Oh.  Right.”

“I mean, you’d hardly know if from the look of you,” Dani drums her fingers against the counter.  The coffee machine been going for ten minutes now and the carafe is still less than a quarter full.  Her despondence is palpable.  “Working hard?  More like hardly working.”

“What is he going to do? Escape?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“Mm,” Gregory shrugs. 

Five’s siblings are currently making their way up from the lowest level of the headquarters.  Their escape had been…much messier than Gregory had thought it would be, and he’s sure that he’s going to catch flak from Command over it, but so far everything is going as expected. They’re coming up as Five is coming down.  It shouldn’t be too long now until they bump into one another. 

That is to say, it’s all going exactly as Gregory had hoped it would.

“Hey,” he says, after a long moment, and sticks his cup out in Dani’s direction.  “What flavor of Slurpee is this?  It’s tastes like…hm…” he smacks his lips, trying to recall the flavor.

Dani reluctantly pulls herself away from the coffee machine, which is still brewing her beloved caffeinated goodness at a painfully slow pace, and grabs the styrofoam cup from his hand.  She sticks the straw in her mouth, brow furrowing.  Then she nods, setting it back down on the table definitively.  “Salem Witch Trials,” she says.  “Definitely the Salem Witch Trials.  It’s good.”

“You’re right, that’s it,” Gregory clicks his tongue and shakes his head.  “Can’t believe I didn’t recognize it.  The hints of hysteria, mob mentality, and ergot poisoning should have been a dead giveaway.”

“No problem,” Dani gives him a curious look.  “Hey, are you really sure that you can beat Five?  I mean he’s…a legend.”

“Oh, absolutely not.  I don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell against him in a fair fight.  But fighting fair, my dear Dani,” Gregory says with a shrug, “is for suckers.”

 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to carry you?” says Luther.

“If you off-offer one more time I’m going to kick your a-ass,” Diego tries to muster up the energy to glare but quite can’t find it.  Luther drops his outstretched hand back to his side anyways, looking chastised.  Diego sighs.  “Go fuss over V.  She looks like she’s having an even harder time standing on her feet than I am.”

That’s enough to divert Luther’s smothering concern.  Diego may have lost an eye, but even now, all these months later, the very mention of Vanya’s name is enough to start Luther hovering around her nervously, arms curled up close to his chest in a contrite attempt to seem smaller.  Diego would almost call it cute if he weren’t too busy being so damn grateful for how useful it is.

“Mm-hm,” says Klaus.  He doesn’t have one of Diego’s arms slung over his shoulder the way that Allison does, but the way that he’s staying close suggests that he’s prepared for Diego to tip over unconscious at any given second.

Which is, for the record, ridiculous.  Diego’s head hurts something fierce, but he’s _fine_.  Unarmed, but fine.

“This isn’t right,” says Klaus.  “There are no guards.”

“Should there be?” says Luther.

“It does seem a little convenient,” Diego can’t help but agree.

“Ben told me that the people who took us seemed like henchmen,” says Klaus.  “But I…haven’t seen any henchmen.”

_Trap?_ Allison fingerspells with the hand that isn’t currently twined around Diego’s waist.

Vanya presses her lips together, grip tightening around Luther’s forearm, which she’s using to help support her body weight.  “For us or for Five?” she says softly.  Her concern is palpable, even though her pupils are still blown a little too wide, her balance still a little too unsteady, her grip on consciousness still a little tenuous.

“That’s the million-dollar question,” Diego mutters.

It’s hard to keep track of how many staircases that they’ve gone up by now.  Or maybe its not, and the ache in Diego’s head is finally getting to him. Each floor is a carbon copy of the one that came before it, and it’s getting tricky to distinguish one from the other through the haze of discomfort clouding his mind.

Discomfort or not, though, even Diego can’t miss the sound of gunfire echoing down the halls.

Luther stops mid-step.  “Klaus,” he hisses, and Klaus immediately takes his place as Vanya’s human crutch as Luther takes a step forward, edging towards the door where the sounds of fighting are originating, one hand outstretched as if that will be enough shield them.  Diego lists forward slightly when Allison shifts her stance defensively, not pulling away but pulling ahead just enough that she can intervene between any oncoming opponents and Diego.

Diego grits his teeth, resisting the urge to tug Allison back closer to him.  He knows that she’s competent, but the idea of letting any of his siblings try and stand between him and something dangerous makes his stomach lurch uncomfortably.

There’s another burst of gunfire and then a sick tearing noise.

And then silence.

Diego doesn’t know what he’s expecting when the door finally swings open.  Gamma, perhaps, looking the way that he had after he’d carved Diego’s eye from its socket, fingers bloody and eyes alight.  Some stranger from the Commission, in a child-like mask and a three-piece suit.

He shouldn’t be surprised, all things considered, when he finally peers past Luther’s hulking form at the person that’s wedged themselves in between the door and the frame and sees Five, but he is.  Five looks the same as he always does, entirely unphased by the chaos and the violence, still in his childish Umbrella Academy uniform.

There’s a splatter of blood on his cheek, glistening and crimson under the fluorescent lights.  He doesn’t seem to have noticed, or maybe he just doesn’t care.

Five smiles at them, all sharp-edges.  “Oh, good,” he says.  “You escaped.  I was worried I’d have to do all the heavy lifting myself.”

“Five,” Vanya breathes.  She pulls away from Klaus, swaying slightly under her own body weight.  She pays it no mind, rushing forwards and throwing her arms around Five’s shoulders.  She’s clearly still woozy.  Though Five tries to hide it, he stumbles under the sudden, unexpected weight that comes with her practically collapsing into the embrace.  “We were so worried.  There’s this guy, and he wants to kill you.”

Five’s eyes are…not quite wide, but they aren’t narrowed with thought or consternation either, which is as close as his expression ever really gets to surprised.  “Gamma,” he says.  “I know.”

“You really know this guy?” says Luther, frowning heavily.

Five sighs.  “Coworkers.  He’s crazy.”

“That’s a fucking understatement,” Diego growls. 

Five’s expression shifts slightly when his eyes meet Diego’s.  He tilts his head to the side, the casual disdain dissolving into something cold, every part of his face going carefully, intentionally blank.

“How’s the face, Diego?” says Five after a moment. 

Agonizing.  Borderline unbearable, though he has to pretend it that it is because if he doesn’t the others—Allison and Klaus especially—will be too focused on fussing over him for them to ever escape.  Five isn’t like that.  He’s practical, focused, unwilling to lose sight of a goal.  But there’s something terrifying about the sudden calculation on his face that has Diego picking his words carefully.

“Been better,” he says.  “But I’ve definitely had worse days.”

Five snorts, rolling his eyes.  “I daresay it’s an improvement,” he says, a hint of his normal devilish smile returning to his lips, though this time it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.  Then he hesitates, glancing down at Vanya—who is now not embracing Five so much as she just sort of leaning on him unsteadily.  “Is she…?”

“Drugged to hell?” Klaus volunteers.  “Yes.”

The scowl returns to Five’s face.  “Right,” he says. 

“Here,” says Luther, “I can take her.  Vanya?”  He comes up to her, settling his large hands on her shoulders.  She obediently straightens her back under his ministrations.

“Sorry,” Vanya says, shooting Five a small smile as she grabs back onto Luther’s arm for support.  “I’m still woozy.” 

“It’s fine,” says Five.  “I wanted to—” he looks over all of them, throat bobbing as he swallows reflexively, and then he abruptly averts his gaze, giving the far wall a withering glare.  “Now’s not the time.  We need to go, _now_.”

“What, just like that?” Diego says.  “No explanations?”

“ _Later_ ,” Five practically hisses, and Diego shuts his mouth immediately.  Five isn’t putting on his usual routine, isn’t grumbling on about how they couldn’t possibly comprehend, or how they need to just leave it to him, and it feels weird seeing him be anything other than prickly.  From him, this almost feels like an attempt at appeasement.  “I promise I will tell you everything you want to know once we’re out of here, okay?”

“Okay,” says Diego.  God, he’d never known how unnerving it would be to see Five so agreeable.  “You’d better.”

“Allison,” says Five.  “Can you use your voice?”

Diego winces, as does everyone else in the room.  Allison’s lips purse, and she shakes her head.  Her hand flexes from where she has it clasped around Diego’s forearm.

Five sighs heavily.  “That’s-that’s fine,” he says, even as he throws his head back and runs a frustrated hand down his face, turning the splash of blood into a red smear.  Then he draws back into himself, almost reflexively, and glances with alarm towards Allison.  “Don’t worry about it,” his voice is suddenly confident and smooth, and he reaches out in a manner that is almost tentative and puts a hand on Allison’s elbow.  As far as Diego can tell, his fingers are just barely grazing her sleeve.  It’s the most human contact that Diego has ever seen him initiate beyond pushing them to the side when they’re in his way and actively pulling them out of danger.  “I can handle this.” 

Allison smiles at him.  _Thanks_ , she signs, and then captures his outstretched hand in her own, giving it a small squeeze.

Five lets the touch linger for a moment and then pulls away, tugging his hand back down to his own side and clearing his throat loudly.  “We’ve wasted enough time.  We need to go _now_.”

“Sure thing.  Through there?” Klaus says, already starting for the door through which Five had just emerged.

“No!” says Five, intercepting Klaus’s wrist with his own grasp so fast that Diego almost misses it. 

“But you came from there,” Luther frowns.

Five’s face twitches, the first sign that he’s starting to get irritated.  “I didn’t know where you guys were,” he says.  “I had to search every room.  Some of them were…occupied.  And that room was—just don’t, alright?”

“We didn’t encounter any ambushes,” Klaus pouts.

Five’s face smooths out again, unreadable and distant except for the slight furrow in his brow.  “No one tried to stop you from escaping? Have you seen anyone around?”

_Only you,_ Allison signs.

“Shit,” Five mutters.

“Is that…bad?” Luther ventures.

“It’s not good, that’s for sure,” Five says, frowning.

“Why?” says Klaus.  “Isn’t this a good thing?  I mean, they’re letting us go!” he giggles.  “Hooray for us!”

“They aren’t letting you go,” Five shakes his head in disappointment.

“Yeah,” Diego says.  “I hate to admit it, but everything about this is a flashing, neon sign that says ‘TRAP’—you guys do get that, right?”

Five blinks, looking surprised.  “Yes,” he says.  “ _Thank you,_ Diego.”

“What?” Diego can feel himself straightening up defensively.  “It’s obvious, isn’t it?  Don’t tell me you think we’re that dumb.”

Five meets his gaze for a long moment and then turns away, pacing the narrow width of the hallway thoughtfully.  “It’s obviously a trap,” he mutters aloud.  “Gregory is trying to pull _something_.  But why?  Why not wait until I’m on the bottom floor and cornered?  I don’t— _fuck_.”  He turns back towards them seriously.  “It doesn’t matter,” he finally says.  “Either way, the only way out is up.”

“You just did a hell of a lot of whispering for something that doesn’t matter,” Diego says, at the same time as Klaus says, in quiet awe:

“This sick fuck’s name is Gregory?”

“No,” says Diego.

“Um,” Klaus says.  “Five definitely just said—”

“I did _not_ get my eye ripped out by someone named Greg,” Diego tells him definitively.  “My eye was ripped out by a time assassin named Gamma.”

“Oh. My. God.” Five grits out.  “Can we _go_?”

“How did we ever get anything done?” Vanya says, voice light with drowsy amusement.

Luther frowns.  “You know,” he tells her, “I don’t think we did.”

__

_**An Excerpt from [Target File: Five]** _

**_Section 36D – Status Update – August 03, XX46 T.A. Linear Time_ **

**Since the completion the completion of the procedure, Five’s behavior has modified itself drastically.  While his core personality traits remain the same, he has taken to greatly restraining his temper and outbursts.  I daresay it’s an improvement.  He has…gone quiet, for lack of a better term.  That said, close observation has failed to yield any evidence that he has developed or is developing traits belonging to the original owners of the DNA incorporated into his body, nor does his body seem to be rejecting the genetic material, as seen in other subjects.  As such, it is likely that this shift is an entirely natural psychological reaction to the procedure.  It is unlikely to affect his performance in the field, though continued observation is recommended.**

**Regards,  
the Handler**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact!!! The chapter title for this chapter almost came (because I thought it would have been funny) from [I Come With Knives](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WjQM-AkCAo8), also by IAMX. sorry for any grammar/spelling issues, or writing that isnt smooth. I'm CERTAIN that there are some errors. this is one of the chapters that had to be re-written and by the time i was editing i was just. so done with this particular stretch of text.


	5. our oldest, deadliest impulse (guilty party)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five does a bad thing. Five has actually done several bad things! Whoops!
> 
> Luther tries to decide whether or not he has a problem with this. Klaus, on the other hand, already knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *leans in* hello
> 
> TW: the 'mild violence' tag may, arguably, lean more into 'moderate violence' territory here. theres also definitely some blood, so take care of yourself!!!
> 
> Chapter title is actually taken from two songs!!!!
> 
> "Our oldest, deadliest impulse" is from [Hallowed](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vcpyOr4ufts) by Lund. Except that I'm technically cheating my song-chapter-title theme here since the full quote is "It's our oldest, deadliest impulse, the need to protect our own at the expense of any other living thing. And we give that impulse such a nice name, don't we?...Love." Except the song actually sampled that quote from a British TV Show called Jekyll, which I've never watched, and while I thought that that quote was so perfect for Five that I had to use it, and the song itself is on my playlist, its not really one of my top picks for five
> 
> so you get a second song and its [Guilty Party](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Kx2JeSaC1Q) by Thunder Jackson
> 
> and im probably overthinking this. as always, sorry for any errors/typos!!! this is one of the chapters that was lost in the random deletion and i can only write and rewrite a piece of text so many times before my brain just decides that its had enough

“Do you think he’s hurt?” Vanya whispers in his ear.

Luther stops, considering Five carefully.  “I don’t think so,” he finally concludes.  Luther is good at identifying injuries—and now that he knows to look, he doesn’t think that even Five could hide the evidence of anything much worse than bruising.

They’d missed the signs before, in the days prior to the Apocalypse, but Luther thought that that had been more their fault than Five’s.  He’d hidden his wounds, yes, but he’d still been too careful, too distant, to be alright.  They just hadn’t let themselves think too deeply into it, though in their defense, Luther has no idea how they could have predicted that little number Five would come limping home with cracked ribs or a bullet in his side, much less that he had turned into the sort of person that would hide and neglect his injuries.

Now that was a transformation that had surprised Luther.  The Five of their childhood had always worn his heart on his sleeve.  His heart had been a bratty, egotistical little thing, of course, but it hadn’t been unusually so.  He’d been just like any other child.  Capable of loving and loving deeply, but living in a world that was still small enough to revolve entirely around them.

They’d always known that Five thought highly of himself, but they could also always tell when his pride had been wounded.

And in many ways, the Five they know now is the same way.  He doesn’t mince his words.  He maintains that he’s smarter and better-trained than the rest of them combined.  Luther can even tell when one of them says something that rubs Five the wrong way, because Five responds to so much as a weird look with bristling, biting cruelty.

So maybe it’s not right, then, to say that Five is _different_ now, than he was before.  He’s just…everything that he was back then, and so much more.  There are depths to him that Luther doesn’t even know how to begin probing, and the water is murky and dark.

But even in murky waters, you can sometimes catch glimpses of things moving in the depths.

Five’s shoulders are tense.  He’s keeping his head still, but Luther can see his eyes, constantly scanning the room for potential threats.  There is even, Luther notes, a little sweat gleaming on the back of his neck.  He isn’t hiding an injury, but he is hiding _something_. 

Ever since he came out of that room, Five has been trying to act like everything is normal.

Which can only mean, of course, that nothing is.

“We’re three sublevels down,” Five explains as they walk briskly down the hall.  “There is only one way into this place—the main entrance—and two ways out.  A briefcase, used either in the lobby or outside.”

“What’s with the security on this place?” Luther mutters lowly.  “What is this, Fort Knox?”

That gets a snort from Five.  “ _Fort Knox,_ ” he says primly, “is a joke.  Then again, its not like they’re accounting for spatial manipulation, so perhaps I’m not the best judge. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve actually broken into—” Luther starts. 

“Don’t worry, Luther,” Five says, before Luther can finish, “I have absolute no plans to tell you anything of value ever.”

Luther shuts his mouth and tries not to feel stung.  It doesn’t really work.

He jumps slightly when he feels a hand on his shoulder.  Allison, frowning, giving him a worried glance.  Luther shakes his head.  No.  Luther knows better than to be genuinely offended by Five’s temper, at this point.

“Um,” says Klaus as they wander their way through the halls.  “Speaking of security…should we just be out in the open like this?”

“It’s fine,” says Five.  “Whatever Gamma’s plan is, it’s not going to be something we can avoid by being _quiet_.  And this floor is clear now.”

“Clear?” Luther says.  Five had said it so simply, so clinically, that it takes him a moment to figure out what Five had been alluding to.  He tenses.  “Oh.”

Luther still isn’t sure how he feels about his brother being a killer.  This is one thing, he supposes, since these people had kidnapped him and his siblings, but even in this context, Five’s indifference towards human life is disturbing.

Except it’s not quite indifference, either.   Luther has read enough philosophy to understand utilitarianism.  Five values human life, but he values it, like he does most things in his life, mathematically.  If some must be sacrificed to preserve the majority, then Five will accept that bargain with…well, perhaps not with pleasure, but with the belief that he has done not just the best that _he_ can do, but the belief that he has done the best that can be done.

Five spares him only a momentary glance.  “They would have killed any of us given the chance,” he says simply.  “Do me a favor and keep that in mind as we come to our door.  Also…in the case that there _is_ an ambush: who here can shoot?”

“Oooh, I can!” says Klaus.  Allison also sheepishly raises her hand.

“Really?” Vanya leans over, peering at her sister.

Allison shrugs, then signs: _I had some creepy fans._

Vanya immediately crinkles her nose, and Luther can feel his own gaze narrowing too.  “You did?” he says.  “Why didn’t you mention this?  We could have—”

Allison arches an eyebrow.  _I learned to shoot,_ she signs.  Her gestures are sharper this time.  She’s irritated.  _I can take care of myself._ She glances down at her own body on the last sign, as if to emphasize that she is, in fact, standing there—fine and unharmed by any stalkers, past or present.

Fair enough.  It still unsettles Luther to think of strange men thinking that they’re entitled to his sister’s space and time and more just because she’s famous and beautiful, but Allison has never gone down easy.  It would take more than your average joe to do any real damage—the only people really at risk were Claire and Allison’s ex-husband, and Luther doesn’t want to doubt that Allison would have called him if she was truly concerned about her ability to protect them.

“Cool,” Diego says, and then groans.  The right side of his face ripples, a muscle spasm twitching beneath the flesh—an involuntary response to the pain.  “We all know Allison has two black belts.  Can we move on?”

“Two’s pretty good,” Vanya says.

“Well,” Diego says, “it’s one less than me.”

Allison shoots Diego an exasperated stare, the irritation behind it heated enough that Luther is almost glad that Diego has been maimed.  Luther would certainly want to be, if Allison were giving him a look like that. 

“Right,” says Five, and then glances briefly between Allison and Klaus before reaching into his jacket, pulling out a gun, and then extending it in Klaus’s direction.  “Two black belts,” he informs Allison, “is considerably better than none.”

“Yay!” Klaus claps lightly in delight before reaching over and delicately plucking the gun out of Five’s hands.  Five arches an exasperated eyebrow in Klaus’s direction.

Allison shrugs.  She doesn’t look particularly upset to have been passed over.  If anything, there is something about the way her posture straightens that feels anticipatory. 

It makes sense.  Growing up, she’d taken to their martial arts lessons with a vigor second only to Diego.  Luther’s strength meant that he’d had to stick to learning the basics for fear of breaking his siblings or the house.  Klaus had been a reluctant, unhappy participant who tried his best to slip free of the training at every available opportunity.  Ben had been forbidden from joining them, their father too afraid that he would lose control.

Vanya hadn’t joined them because she wasn’t part of the Umbrella Academy.

Or, at least, that’s what their father had always said.  But, like so much of what he had told him, Luther suspects now that there’s a deeper truth to it.  Maybe she’d been excluded for the same reason as Ben.  Maybe it had been part of his scheme to push her down, compress her into something too small to ever be a threat to him. 

Christ, he’s starting to sound like _Diego_. 

“The stairs are here,” Five says.  

“Great,” says Klaus.  “That’s—” And then he freezes.

“Klaus?”

The air leaves Klaus’s chest in a wheeze.  He stares at the door to the stairs, and the glances at Five, and then back to the door to the stairs.

Five goes as stiff as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over his head.  “Klaus…” he says lowly, voice grave, before faltering off into silence, as if not sure where to go from there.

Klaus’s gaze lingers on the door for a long moment before his eyes go narrow.  “Shut up,” he hisses.  “Shut _up._ You deserved it, I bet you deserved it.  You fucking look like you had it com—”

“Klaus!” Five interrupts sharply.  Klaus jumps, eyes going wide and startled but shifting the couple necessary inches to stare at his shorter brother. “No one _deserves_ it.  Sometimes things just have to be done.  I won’t apologize for that.  But please, let’s not fall to the indignity of lying to ourselves.”

Klaus goes still and silent.  Five stares at Klaus, some of the coldness dissolving from his face.  He opens his mouth and then shuts it again, an unreadable emotion flickering across his features.

“Let’s go,” Five mutters, and pushes the door to the stairwell open.

In retrospect, it should have been obvious that Klaus was talking to a spirit.  All the evidence had been there, but in many ways the idea had been too abhorrent for Luther to let himself think.  But however ugly the thought is, it’s really nothing compared to what’s waiting for them in the next room. 

“Oh my god,” Vanya gasps.  Luther resists the reflex to cover her eyes or avert her gaze, like he would for most civilians at such a sight.

“Jesus, Five!” says Diego.  “Did you—”

“Would you have preferred I let them shoot me?” Five says tightly.  While there’s no indication of it in his voice or face, he _must_ be feeling uncomfortable, because he reappears at the top of the staircase in a flash of blue light, hands tucked in his pockets and expression suddenly bored.  “Hurry up.”

 “Of course not,” Luther reassures.  This is…an ugly sight to be sure, and Luther is _never_ going to abide by his brother killing random innocents, butterfly effect be damned.  But this is different, even if it is horrible.  This is still self-defense.

Picking their way across the bodies is uncomfortable and difficult, and once they reach the top Five pivots on his heel and starts walking again, faster than before, and much less chatty too, which is really saying something considering that he hadn’t been that talkative to begin with.   

This floor, like the ones that had come before it, is sleek and white, lit from above by fluorescent lights.  Five is deceptively fast for someone with such short legs, and by the time he’s halfway down the hall, he apparently gets tired of keeping pace with them, jumping all the way to the door at the end of the hall.

Five leans against the door, one of his feet tapping an impatient beat on the ground.  Arms folded across his chest. 

( _Hiding something_ , that voice in Luther’s head whispers again.)

“Someone’s in a rush,” Diego mutters.

Klaus exhales heavily.  “Come on,” he grouses at Five.  “We have invalids here!”

“Hey!” Diego frowns.  “Allison?”

Allison rolls her eyes but obediently leans over and punches Klaus in the shoulder.

Klaus grabs his shoulder with an exaggerated wince and a yelp, shooting a glare at Allison before turning his gaze towards Diego.  “You know,” he says.  “This is exactly my point.  The Diego I know would have punched me _himself_.”

“Guys,” says Vanya.

“Yeah, well,” Diego sniffs haughtily.  “Maybe I decided it wasn’t worth my time.”

“Guys?”

“Mm-hm,” Klaus says archly.  “Sure.  So if I pushed you right now, you wouldn’t tip over like a bowling pin?”

“Hm, well, unfortunately, _Allison_ would never let you do that, so I guess it will stay a mystery forever.”

“Guys!” Vanya’s voice pierces through the air so sharply that they all jump.  “For fuck’s— _Five!_ ”

Five?

Five isn’t doing anything.  Five is waiting for them at the end of the hall, because he’s restless and in a rush, and he is…not where Luther last saw him.

“Um,” says Luther, as they start for the door.

“Oh no,” says Klaus.  “Oh noooo.  Did we just _lose Five_?”

“He probably just went into the next room?” Luther tries.  It would be an entirely reasonable suggestion—the least worrying answer to the question in all of their minds—if not for the sudden burst of gunfire from the door at the end of the hall.

Luther groans.

“Thirty seconds!” Diego says with a swear.  “He couldn’t have waited thirty seconds?”

The closer they get, the louder and more apparent the sounds of combat are.  The gunfire is sharp, accompanied by the tings of shell casings hitting the ground, though the amount of audible shooting is decreasing by the second.  And, through the chaotic din, there is the all-too familiar sound of Five warping.  It’s so quiet and quick that Luther almost misses it, but a childhood of training together means that Luther can recognize the hum of Five folding space around himself from half a mile away. 

Luther is so focused on the sounds of the fight that he almost misses Klaus reaching for the door.  He just barely manages to grab Klaus in time, snagging him by the back of his vest and pulling _back_. 

“What the hell man?” Klaus looks up at him with wide eyes.  At some point, he’d pulled the gun out and now is holding it in a two-handed grip, ready to fire.

“Just wait,” Luther says.  “We don’t know where they’re shooting.”

“At Five, probably!”

Luther frowns.  “You can’t help him if you open the door and step into a bullet.”

“But—”

“Just give him a moment.”

Allison has a small frown on her face, and Diego is outright scowling.

“You better be right about this, Luther,” Diego says lowly.

He is.  Or at least, he thinks he is.  The sounds of fighting get quieter and quieter, until they’re almost inaudible.

And then inside the room there’s that familiar hum—except it doesn’t resolve like it’s supposed to.  It rises, and then it stutters, and then it goes silent.

“Shit,” says Five’s voice, level and absolutely unconcerned. “Come _on_.”  Something hits the ground with a heavy _thud_. 

“Luther!” Klaus hisses. 

“Okay.  Now we step in,” Luther concedes.  He doesn’t bother wasting time with the doorknob.  It’s easier for him to walk right through, shouldering through the door and parts of the wall as he does.

Luther has seen grisly crime scenes before.  But those are…nothing compared to this.  It’s not even the violence of it—it’s the, for lack of a better word, _freshness._

Like the bodies in the stairs, these bodies are all dressed in black tactical gear, faceless and flat on the floor.  Unlike the bodies in the stairs, some of these ones are still moving.  Death rattles for some, perhaps, or maybe they’re still lolling from the blows that killed them. 

The blood isn’t yet settled.  It’s spreading across the floor, slow and steady, a glossy, coppery coat of paint.

Six of the guards are down. 

One is still standing.

Five is flat on his back in the middle of the room, a scowl on his face, hands braced on the ground like he’s ready to spring back up at a moment’s notice.  The surviving guard is standing at his feet, gun up and levelled directly at Five’s chest. 

“Hey asshole, back off!” Klaus says loudly, leveling his gun in the guard’s direction. 

The guard turns and stares at them, gaze unreadable beneath their goggles and mask.  Their gun is still trained at Five, but it’s wavering slightly, twitching between him and them, unable to decide between the known variable and the new threat.

“Drop the gun,” Luther advises in the face of their hesitation, straightening up to his full height.  Without the instinctive hunch of his spine, Luther stands a full head and shoulders above the guard.  This is _really_ not a fight that they can win, and for their sake, Luther hopes that they figure it out.  The guard opens their mouth.  The muzzle of their gun dips slightly. 

Maybe their grip is just loose because they’re distracted, and they’re about to tell Luther to go to hell.  Maybe they’re about to surrender.

Five does not, apparently, care to find out either way.  The second that the gun’s barrel starts to tilt, Five lashes out with a leg, hooking a foot around the guard’s ankle and pulling it back up towards his chest in one fluid motion.  The guard topples backwards. 

It’s no secret that Five is _quick_ , but he relies so much on his warping that Luther forgets that Five’s natural speed is no joke either.  Five is on top the guard almost before they hit the ground, planting a knee on their chest and a foot on their right arm to keep them pinned.  One of Five’s hands flies to the guard’s mouth and nose, as if to smother them, while the other slams into the base of the jaw and presses down on it with his full weight, as if to hold it shut.

For a moment, everything is still.  Five’s chest is heaving from exertion.  He’s just short of gasping, hands wrapped tightly around the bottom half of the guard’s face.

The guard twitches, and then they go still.

For a moment, Luther thinks that they’ve just gone unconscious.  Shock from the fall, maybe, or fear.  He can’t think of anything else.  There had been no twist of the neck, no weapon.

But when Five finally pulls away, his hands are slick and gloved red. 

Blood sluices down the guard’s neck, silver glinting as Five pulls a small knife—one of _Diego’s_ knives—from where he had, with perfect precision and almost invisible grace, slid it into the crook where the base of the jaw met the neck.  The blood coats Five’s fingers and palms, painting the backs of his hands down to the knuckles.  When he drops his hands back down to his sides, it starts to drip, all the way down his fingers to the floor.

“You could have waited outside,” he says, so coolly that Luther almost doesn’t realize that he’s speaking to them.

Self-defense, Luther tells himself again.  That had been self-defense. 

_Self-defense_ , he thinks, even as his mind conjures up the image of the guard opening their mouth.  Whatever they’d been about to say is lost now.

Self-defense—but maybe it hadn’t been.

And now they’ll never know for sure.

“Are you kidding me, Five?” Diego snaps.

Five raises an eyebrow.  “What?”

“You just—you charg ed ahead without telling any of us, you nearly got yourself killed, and you just—you just—”

Five scoffs.  “Don’t flatter yourself,” he says.  “I wasn’t in any danger.”

“He had a gun pointed at you,” Vanya says softly.

“Well, it’s hardly the first time.”

“You weren’t exactly doing anything about it when we walked in,” Luther says.  “Your warping—”

“Is at it’s limits for the time being,” says Five with a scowl.  “Again, hardly for the first time.  If you’d waited one more second before barging in—”

“You’d be dead!”

“I would have finished it,” Five completes, sending his siblings an irritated glare.

“I don’t see the point of that,” says Klaus softly.  His eyes are distant, not meeting Five’s.  “They were about to surrender.  They were about to give up!”

“Maybe they were,” says Five, shrugging.  “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters!” Klaus says.  No—not _says_.  Snaps.  Snaps, pulling himself up taller, eyes going a little bit wild, voice rising louder than Luther has ever heard it go when he’s not trying to be obnoxious and funny. 

Klaus takes a step forward, and for the first time _ever_ , Luther sees Five take a step back.  “Come _on_ , Five!  That shit matters! It has to matter, or else how are we any better than them?  No!” he glances off to the side, to empty air, to Ben.  “No, I’m _right_.  Killing the others was one thing, but this one…we had them outnumbered.  We had them pinned.  And we didn’t even give them a _chance_ to surrender? _How does that make us better?_ ”

Five usually, and Luther means no offense by this, looks his real age.  For all that he’s a thirteen year old boy, the traces of the older man he was (is?) are startlingly obvious at times.  But it’s usually…cute.  He looks his age in the way that cats with wrinkled faces look like old men, or how some people, mature for their age, keep their friends in line with loving sighs and good-natured exasperation.  Old, but not in a way that feels real.  Old in some ways, but still so achingly young and immature in others.

But right now, with anger rolling out across his face like thunder, with his ocean blue eyes storm-dark and turbulent with more emotions than Luther can identify, Five looks every bit that fifty-eight years and then some. 

“I never said that I was,” Five grinds out between grit teeth.  “For fuck’s sake, Klaus.  I’m _one of them_.  I’m not better than they are.  I’m just _stronger_.”

“Five,” Vanya tries.

“No, Vanya,” Five says.  “Apparently, all of you are still laboring under the fantasy that this is some sort a game of heroes and villains.  That we’re still at home, playing the part of the Umbrella Academy.  But we aren’t.  This isn’t Doctor Terminal.  I’m not a hero.  And these guys?”  Five gestures at the black-clad corpses.  “I won’t pretend they’re good people.  They’re thugs, most of them have nasty, extensive records.  But what they’re doing here?  It’s honest work for an organization that does some awful, monstrous shit, yes, but that also does a job that needs to be done and that no one else can do.  So shut the hell up and get this through your thick heads.  This isn’t good versus evil.  It isn’t heroes versus villains.  It’s just me versus them, and I don’t plan on losing.”

“They wanted the world to end,” Luther shakes his head, and then automatically winces, casting a side-glance at Vanya.  She’s frowning thoughtfully in Five’s direction, and is apparently so caught up in her musings that she’s skipped over the guilty phase she usually has every time someone brings up the apocalypse.

Five chuckles under his breath, rolling his eyes.  “The end of something,” he says, “is not the end of everything. 

“So…what?” Diego frowns heavily.  “Are you saying that things would have been better off if the world had ended?”

“I don’t know!” says Five.  “Not for us.  Definitely not for you.”

“That can’t be right,” Luther shakes his head.

“Five,” says Klaus.  His voice cracks, distress breaking through the frustration like rock thrown into a lake.  “What the _fuck_ happened to you?”

Five glares.  “Nothing that I’d trust you to understand,” he says.  “And if you’re done wasting my time, let’s get the hell out of here.”

 

The fight between Klaus and Five lingers poisons the air around them, turning it stale and unpleasant.  It sours further when they ascend the second staircase, also riddled with corpses, and becomes almost witheringly unbearable when they reach the third.

How can one person kill so many without getting so much as a scratch?  Without so much as a flicker of remorse?

Luther tries to ask.  “How did you get so…good at…” the words die in his throat.  The question is just too awful to voice.

Five just shrugs.  “Practice,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

The third staircase leads them out of subterranean floors, all dim fluorescent lights and cheap tile, and into a room that almost defies description.

It’s a vast atrium, a lobby.  The front desk is empty, chair overturned. The furniture is all dark expensive-looking wood.  Every exposed surface is a rich, textured marble, reflecting the gentle yellow and orange lights that are illuminating the area.  Four pillars decorate the corners of the room, stretching high up to the glass ceiling, beyond which is a view so familiar that Luther almost startles backwards.

“Oh my God,” Vanya says.

Diego turns his gaze towards Five, incredulous. “Are we in space?”

One corner of Five’s mouth twitches.  “Do you want the long answer or the short answer?”

Luther gives Five a long stare.  Despite the momentary flash of amusement, there is not a hint of irony on his face.  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, somehow already sensing that he doesn’t stand a chance at understanding the answer, whatever it ends up being.

“The short answer is yes,” Five says, starting across the room and gesturing for them to follow.  “The longer answer is no.”

Klaus blinks.  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he says.  His eyes are still guarded, his voice a little defensive, but Klaus’s temper has always—on the few occasions that it’s been aroused—burned hot and fast rather than cold and slow, and already, it seems, his curiosity is causing it to abate a bit.

“That’s the long answer,” Five elaborates no further.

Klaus scowls again.

Okay, maybe it hasn’t abated _that_ much.

“What the hell is this place?” Diego says. 

“This,” Five gestures to the room around them “is the Commission’s planar headquarters.”

Luther leans in.  “Is this where you went to get information on the Apocalypse?”

Five wrinkles his nose as if in disgust.  “No,” he says.  “That would have been one of our terrene headquarters.  It’s where most of the real work gets done.  Calculations, lab work.  Lower management works from there, so do most assassins.  This place is mainly for show.  Upper management keeps their offices here.  So does HR, so people will drop in if they have complaints.  Usually, assassins only come here with the Handler if they have something special to report.”

“Including you and Gamma?”

“Gamma doesn’t,” Five says.  “S-class agents are given quite a bit of freedom, they’re usually allowed to act independently of the Handler.”

Vanya frowns at him.  “Usually?”

“They didn’t trust me, so I was kept on a shorter leash than most.” Five doesn’t look very upset by that fact.  If anything, judging by the self-satisfied smile that spreads across his face, it’s quite the opposite.  “Not that it mattered in the end.  The Handler has one job—keep the corrections department in line.  She was not very happy with the fact that I kept slipping my collar.” Five tsks, shaking his head as if disappointed in her incompetence.

Allison frowns, tapping Five on the shoulder. He doesn’t stop walking, but he glances over in her direction, as if to indicate: _I’m watching_.

Allison quirks her eyebrows in question.  _Is she the one that kidnapped us?_

Five shakes his head immediately.  “Dead,” he says.

“Oh,” says Klaus.  “Did you kill her too?”

“Klaus,” Diego says lowly, grabbing Klaus’s forearm with the hand that isn’t currently braced on Allison’s shoulder.    

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Five says carelessly.  “Hazel did.  Such a shame though, I would have enjoyed it.”

“Oh,” says Klaus with a sigh.  “So we’re back to _this_ now?”

“I’m sorry?” Five says.  It doesn’t sound like an apology, or a question for that matter.  It sounds like a challenge.

“Oooh,” Klaus pitches his voice high.  “ _I’m Five.  When people say things that upset me I get angry and mean and then I aggressively pretend that I don’t give a shit about anything_.”

Five opens his mouth, fists clenching at his sides, the knuckles going white, before he suddenly shuts it again.

He doesn’t say anything at all.

Klaus hesitates, head tilting the side quizzically.  “Well,” he says.  “I have to admit, that’s not the response I was expecting from you.”

Diego glowers.  “What sort of response were you fucking expecting, Klaus?” he says.  “Even Five can see that this isn’t the time to get into it.  What’s gotten into you?  Normally you’re as good at staying out of this shit as Vanya and Ben.”

Klaus’s eyes go distant and glassy.  “Yeah,” he says.  “Well none of you have to hear them.”

Five’s face is blank, his body twitches slightly with some sort of aborted attempt to move.  Everything about him is controlled now.

( _Hiding something_ , Luther thinks again.  He thinks about the criminals they’ve apprehended, thinks about how sometimes he’d watch their trials, just to make sure they got was coming to them.  Five looks like he’d been plucked right out of one of those courtrooms.  He looks like the guilty party.)

“Oh,” says Diego limply.  “Are they, uh, always around—”

“I haven’t seen them before,” Klaus says quickly.  “And most of these ones are leaving already.  Usually the dead only stick around if the circumstances of their death are being obscured, or if what happened was…too violent and painful for them to move on.  I’m only seeing these guys because they’re…” Klaus swallows. “Fresh.”

The outside of the Commission’s planar headquarters is somehow even more mind-boggling than its interior.  It looks like a period piece, an ancient, white, marble building, plopped on top of a space rock and floating through space.

What the fuck?

“Um,” Vanya says.  “Am I crazy, or is that building a little…”

“Small?” Klaus offers.

“Yep,” Luther confirms.  It’s hard to tell at first glance, but the lobby alone of the building that they’d just been in is too small to have fit inside the manor, grand as it is.

Five just shrugs a little listlessly.  “It’s not small,” he says, like they’re supposed to understand what he’s talking about.  “Its dimensions are just distorted.”

“Oh my God,” Diego whispers.  “It’s bigger on the inside?”

Five blinks, looking a little surprised.  “Well,” he says.  “That’s a little simplistic, but technically correct.  Well done.”

“…right,” Luther cuts in, before Diego can register the sudden, massive gap in Five’s knowledge and start mocking him for it.  “So, where’s the trap?”

“I have no idea.” Five says.

“What?” Luther swivels to give Five a look.  Five’s eyes are narrow, thoughtful, but not worried.  “Five, you said—”

Five sghs.  “I have no idea what Gamma is playing at.  I’ve run through this a hundred different times in my head and I just can’t figure it out.  I have no idea what the hell he’s planning, and it’s driving me _insane!”_

Luther had thought that his mind couldn’t get blown any further tonight.  He had, apparently, been wrong.  And he’s not the only one.

“You…” says Diego, voice limp with disbelief, “can’t figure it out?  _You_?”

Five scowls harder.  “It’s nonsensical,” he says tightly. 

Klaus gasps, the noise so loud and so sudden that Luther nearly jumps a foot in the air.  “Oh!” Klaus says.  “That’s why you’ve been such an asshole.  You’re _stressed_.”

Five pauses, blinking a couple times and then leaning forwards slightly in disbelief. “What.”

“You’re _stressed!”_ Klaus says again, gesturing in the air as if to say: _of course, yes, this explains everything._

“Yes?” says Five slowly. 

“Huh?”

“Wha—an organization of time-traveling assassins kidnapped my family and wants to kill me!  Why _wouldn’t_ I be stressed?”

“…because you’re Five?”

“That means literally nothing!”

“Mm,” says Diego.

“Are. You. Serious.”

“You aren’t easy to read, Five!” Diego says defensively.  “No offense, but you seem to take ‘almost getting killed’ in stride most of the time.”

“I—this conversation is pointless,” Five shakes his head.  “I just don’t understand.  There’s no trap that would benefit from letting us get _this far_ , so why did he let us?”

“Well, that’s because there _is_ no trap.”

All of them but Five startle at the sound of Gamma’s voice.  Gamma is standing behind them, still in the doorway.  He has one hand propped against the frame.  In it, he’s holding a gun, but his grip is deliberately loose, the weapon listing heavily off to the side.  Gamma smiles at them, that winning, supermodel’s grin, bright and flashy.

Five straightens his back and shifts on his feet, gaze darting around the largely empty space around them as if searching for something to use in combat, returning to Gamma when he apparently finds nothing.

Twitchy, stiff, uncomfortable.  The puzzle pieces click into place.  Luther had thought that Five was keeping a secret from them.  And he had.  Sort of.

He hadn’t been hiding anything, like Luther had initially suspected.  Or at least—nothing physical, and not information.

Twitchy, stiff, uncomfortable. 

Five had been nervous.

Nervous, though on anyone else Luther would have called it _afraid_.

“Is that so?” Five says dryly.

“It is.”

“Then why shouldn’t I just leave?”

“Oh,” says Gamma.  “I mean…you can?  But if you do, I’ll definitely kill your family.”

Five scowls.  “I’m failing to see how that isn’t a trap.”

Gamma shrugs.  “A trap is like an ambush or a mousetrap,” he says.  “It’s predicated on surprise and location.  This isn’t that.  This is just as I implied in my message.  A trade.  You give us what we want, and in return, your siblings get to live! Hooray!  Everybody wins!”

Luther can see Five faltering, gaze listing off to the side, towards them, as if checking for any missed injuries.  “I don’t see any men with guns, Greg,” Five finally says.  “And you’re good, but you’re not me.  You couldn’t kill my family before I killed you.”

“So bright,” says Gamma.  “But so stupid.  I don’t think a hundred of our best men with guns could kill you and your family either, Five.  Which is why the men with guns aren’t here.  You following me yet, Five?”  When Five doesn’t answer, Gamma grins wider.  “They’re in Saint Petersburg.  And they’re in Hong Kong, and Mazatlán, and Nîmes, and Toronto, and Munich.  If you so much as _breathe_ in the wrong direction, my men are going to break into the houses of six different women in these countries, and they’re going to kill them.”

“Shit,” Five breathes.

“What the fuck is that supposed to have to do with us?  We don’t even know who you're talking about,” Diego snaps.

“I suppose you wouldn’t,” Gamma says easily.  “You were just babies when your father bought you, after all.  So, Five.  Are you finally ready to bargain?”

_**An Excerpt from [Target File: Five]** _

**_Section 14E – Incident Reports and Complaints_ **

**Incident Report: Assassination of [Redacted]**

**Date:** March 30, XX46 T.A. Linear Time / [Month Redacted] [Date Redacted], 1914 C.E.

**Location:** [Redacted]

**Person(s) involved:** Agent Five (A-class), Agent Finch (A-class)

**Instigator(s):** Agent Five

**Victim(s):** Agent Finch

**Incident description:** Agent Five and his partner, Agent Finch, arrived in [date redacted] [location redacted].  Agent Five was armed with his usual kit (VP9, MK23 with suppressor and laser aiming module, TRG-42 with scope and bipod), as was Agent Finch (SIG P226, two 3V Recon Tanto tactical blades).  The target was dispatched within three hours of arrival.  Unfortunately, both the target’s romantic partner and their child had come home early, in defiance of previous iterations of the timeline.  They hid in the closet as Agents Five and Finch terminated their target, fleeing when Agents Five and Finch were cleaning themselves off afterwards. Agent Finch attempted to take off in pursuit.  Agent Five attempted to persuade Agent Finch to let the witnesses go, in direct violation of protocol. 

Aware of Agent Five’s track record, Agent Finch played along.  Then, when they returned to the hotel, Agent Finch waited until Agent Five was asleep before departing to finish the job.  When Agent Finch returned to the hotel, Agent Five had reawakened and was clearly aware of what had happened.  During the ensuing confrontation, Agent Five reportedly grew aggressive and belligerent.  He ultimately discharged a single bullet from his VP9 into Agent Finch’s left knee, then used one of Agent Finch’s own 24 Recon Tantos to stab them in their right side, between their fourth and fifth ribs.  Agent Five then proceeded to dial Headquarters to request an extraction.

Our doctors were able to save Agent Finch, and Agent Five claims that he knew that Agent Finch “would survive, unfortunately”.

**Disciplinary Action, Planned or Undertaken:** Unsure.  Agent Five is the most prolific agent the corrections department has had in years.  However, this is the fourth partner he’s gone through, and his disregard for protocol is unacceptable.  Advisement required.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is friendly to all the hargreeves sibs bc!!!! i love all of them!!!!! but also??? writing from luthers pov??? HARD
> 
> fun fact this chapters excerpt from five's file was just my excuse to do SOMETHING with the ridiculous amount of weapons research i did for five. 
> 
> me: five, while practical, probably also cares deeply about the specific weapon he uses. he'll take anything in a pinch, but given the option he will always choose something that he considers tried and true, so i will research what weapons have the precise qualities that i think he would look for--  
> me, two days later, realizing that i actually have NO USE for this information and that theres not really way to insert it into my writing in a meaningful way: cool cool cool no doubt no doubt no doubt
> 
> so you the ones i chose get to be referenced in passing because i desperately want to feel like i didnt waste my time. 
> 
> thank you to everyone who commented last chapter !!!! you filled my life with joy!!!


	6. an immortal with a loaded gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> five plays the grumpy, schoolboy martyr. his family is pretty unhappy about it. grace worries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof!!! here it is!!!! 
> 
> Chapter Title is [Start a War](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4v840p20QtE) by Klergy
> 
> TW: this chapter for a brief moment of suicidal ideation??? its thought about very briefly, analytically, as a potential solution to a problem, and then dismissed. take care of yourselves!!!!
> 
> as always, sorry for any grammar or wonky writing!!!! this chapter in particular feels a little rough in certain sections to me, so i apologize. i proofread, but sometimes im really eager to post and miss things!!

For a long moment, Five can’t bring himself to say anything at all.  He’s too busy staring Gamma down, scouring him for any sign, any sign at all, that he’s lying.

There is none.

Granted, that doesn’t mean that he’s telling the truth.  Gamma is young and careless and excited to watch the world burn.  He is good at his job, and Five might never know if he’s bluffing.

And it doesn’t even matter, because Five can’t take the risk that it might be true.

“You didn’t see that one coming, right?”  Gamma says.  He sounds excited, almost giddy. 

“It’s _insane_ ,” Five tells him.  Pot calling the kettle black, he knows, but that doesn’t mean that it’s not worth saying.  “The timeline will—” collapse.  _Shatter_.  A change like that is everything that the Commission exists to stop.

“Well,” Gamma says.  “We’re serious about it.”

“The Commission gave you _approval_ to do this?” Five snarls.

“ _Bring Five down by any means necessary_ ,” Gamma confirms, pitching his voice higher in an uninterpretable imitation.  “They gave me the resources.  They gave me anything and everything I asked them for.  So, yeah, I don’t think it’s a stretch to assume.”

Five’s tongue tastes like ash.  The taste is disgusting, and he knows it too well.  He tries to wash it out, and it always comes back.  It always does, just like it always comes back to this: to the memory of him, thirteen and small and arrogant and one day into the apocalypse, watching the world burn—his family along with it. 

Gamma can set his world on fire again.  He’s about to, if Five doesn’t acquiesce.

But it still doesn’t add up.

“If this was your plan all along,” Five says.  “Why wait?  Why do any of this?” 

Gamma arches an eyebrow.  “Why Five,” he says smoothly, “you’ll have to be a little more specific.”

“The _kidnapping_ ,” Five hisses.  “The…message.  The theatrics.  You just as easily could have slipped a note under my door.  You could have accosted me while I was on a coffee run.  Why all the unnecessary work?”

Gamma’s face crinkles up.  He looks disgusted. “Five,” he says.  “I would never limit myself to doing the bare minimum in my work.  You have no sense of craft.  No sense of _artistry_.  Besides,” he winks, “I have to admit, part of me just wanted to watch you squirm.  Speaking of _squirming—_ how did you like your gift?  I tried and make sure it got to you undamaged.  You spent so much time playing with the glass one that I thought—hey, maybe he’d like the real thing!”

Five blinks.  He has what?  “No sense of—do you _know_ who you’re talking to?” he scowls.  “I know _craft_.  This isn’t craft, this is just…” he shakes his head, “overkill.  And the eye was a bit cliché.  What is this, a cheap spy flick?  Maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised.  You’ve always been a bit of an exhibitionist.”

“I’m starting to wonder,” Diego mutters, presumably about the spy thing, Five thinks, and then Diego says: “Wait.  What did he do with my eye?”

“I have it,” Five tells him.

“You _have_ it?”

Five shoots him a brief, irritated glare.  “Yes,” he says.

“Can I…have it back?”

Five wrinkles his nose.  _What_?  Jesus Christ, why do his siblings say this shit? “It’s not like you can put it back in,” he says, “but suit yourself.” He pulls it out of the pocket of his blazer—it’s actually quite a relief to be rid of it, he hadn’t realized how much it had been burdening him until now that it’s back in his hand.  He just chucks it over his shoulder, not bothering to look or aim.

There’s the sound of someone catching it, followed immediately by the sound of the box opening, which is in turn, followed immediately by Klaus going: “Ugh, gross,” and a slightly nauseous: “Close it, close it!” from Diego.

Five sighs. 

“I suppose I should be flattered,” he finally says.  “All this effort just to kill me.”

“Oh,” says Gamma.  “This isn’t about killing you.”

Five doesn’t let himself look as thrown as he feels.  “Oh?” he says.  “It certainly feels like it.”

 “Well, you’ve always been paranoid,” Gamma informs him simply.  “This is about the fact that you came into our HQ and broke some things that you _really_ shouldn’t have.”

“Ooh,” Five shoots back a mock-grimace, tucking his hands into his pockets and tilting his head back as if in thought.  “I’ve done a lot of that.  You’ll—how did you put it?—have to be a little more specific.”

Gamma just grins.  “Come _on,_ Five,” he says.  “You take a job at the Handler’s behest.  You play case manager for a day and then you blow up our pneumatic tube room, our break room, our briefcases, and _our lab_ , and you don’t know what this is about?  Do you know how _hard_ it is for us to get our hands on those samples in the first place?  They’re basically impossible to replace.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”  Disgust blossoms in Five’s chest, and he can feel it rippling across his face despite his best attempts to suppress it.  “ _That’s_ what this is about?  You should be thanking me.  The stuff that the Commission’s scientists were trying to cook up is monstrous _, Gregory_.  Think about what they could do.”

“Think about how they could improve our efficiency,” Gamma coos back.  “Everyone could be like me.  Like _you_.”

“There is no one else like me,” Five snaps back. 

He should have known better than to try and reason with Gamma.  Five has always stood apart from the other S-classes, and this is why.  They have no vision, eyes that don’t ever look beyond the picture that the Commission paints for them. 

“I suppose not,” Gamma says.  “You’re one of a kind, that’s for sure.  But when it comes down to it, you’re still only human.”

“What does this even matter?” It’s Klaus.  Five tamps down on his desire to tell him to shut up.  He’d told his siblings to be quiet, but at least, this time, Klaus is asking a question that Five himself had been about to.  “He blew up your guys’ shit.  Whatever.  It’s _gone_.  He won’t do it again, so let’s just move on.”

“I mean,” Five gives Gamma a measured look.  “I might.  Do it again, that is.” 

No point in lying about it.  At this point, the bad blood between him and the Commission is old news, so it’s conceding nothing to Gamma to admit that he’d blow up every single one of the Commission’s headquarters if given the time and resources.

“But see, that’s where you’re wrong!  Our samples aren’t gone!”

Five feels his body go leaden. 

_Oh,_ he thinks vaguely.  _Oh shit._

“What the hell does that mean?” Diego snaps.  Five wants to rip his hair out.

He needs his siblings to shut up.  He needs them to shut up right now.

Maybe Five’s temper is running a little shorter than it usually is.  His hands are still tacky with the blood of that last guard and none of that— _none of that_ —had gone according to plan.  This damn space rock, tying his stomach up in knots, his dumb fucking siblings bursting into the room at the last minute.  His hands feel gross.  Filthy.  His entire body feels strange and sticky, and now Gamma’s implication has caught in his mind and he can’t let it go.

“We kept our samples limited.  No replication—we didn’t want anyone stealing them and running off!  After all, the damage that they could do…”  Gamma imitates a shudder.  “The only time the samples were ever replicated was for integration into a new subject.  Which means that there is one place we can still get our samples back.”

“This,” Five exhales slowly through his nose, “isn’t an assassination.”

“Nope,” Gamma grins.  “You can think of this more as…the repossession of stolen goods.”

“Five?” Klaus.  He sounds confused.  Five ignores it.

“Well,” Five says instead.  “That’s a relief.”

“What?” Luther stands up, startled.  “Five, what does he mean?”

“Guys,” says Vanya.  She sounds vaguely sick.  “He means that Five—that Five—” she swallows heavily, and Five takes the opportunity to cut her off.

“It’s fine,” he says, simply.  And it is.  Maybe it shouldn’t be, but Five finds that he really doesn’t mind.  It’s okay, because everything finally, finally makes _sense_.

Gamma could have killed Five by raiding his house.  Overwhelming him with opponents when he wasn’t expecting it.  Five is the best assassin to have ever come out of the Commission, after all, but the thing about assassins is that they have the advantage when they can plan.  When they can attack unseen and unheard. 

Even the best of them, and Five _is_ the best of them, can be taken down when the tables are turned.

But the Commission doesn’t want Five dead.  The Commission wants Five alive, and that means that they needed to use precision when dealing with him.  It means that they couldn’t take him by force—couldn’t excise him from the timeline if he didn’t want to be.

The only way for them to get him back alive is for them to make him choose it willingly.

And the only way they were ever going to get Five to come back willingly was to take away all of his other options.

He should have caught on earlier.  Five had thought that they were playing cat and mouse.  He’d thought that this was a hunt, that it would end with one dead and discarded and the other victorious, and then he’d been confused as to why he was losing—why Gamma wasn’t following the rules.

But all along, Gamma had been playing chess, and now it’s too late.  Gamma has him in check—no, not in check.  In _zugzwang._   All his possible moves can only make things worse.

He’s a rat in a cage, and there’s only one way forward. 

It’s an unappealing path, but Five can live with it because now he and Gamma are on the same page.  They’re playing the same game, and now that they’re playing the same game, Five finally, _finally_ has a grip on what Gamma’s next move is going to be.

And as long as Five cooperates, Gamma is going to let his family go.

And if Gamma lets his family go, Five can finally start playing dirty.

Well, strictly, nothing is stopping him from starting now.  Five briefly contemplates blowing his own brains out.  They might get their samples back, but they would gain no extra benefits from studying his powers.  He does not particularly want to die, but it would be worth it to fuck over the Commission.

It’s an entertaining thought, but implausible.  Klaus has the gun, and while Klaus is…notably frustrated with Five right now, he’s also always been the sensitive type.  He’d probably take it hard if Five asked for the weapon back and then… 

The Commission is petty anyways.  If he offed himself now, they’d probably kill his siblings in retaliation anyways.

No, it’s better to wait.

“How do you even know he has it?” Diego snaps.  “He’s not exactly the same guy you knew, if you hadn’t caught on yet.”

Five shakes his head.  It’s a nice sentiment and is actually a logical assumption based on the information Diego has, which is always a pleasant surprise coming from one of his family members.  Too bad it’s wrong.  “It’s the same body, Diego.  What happened to me was…” he wrinkles his nose, “an unfortunate side effect of quantum energy passing through my cells without any sort of protection.  If my equations had been right, I would have been fine.  That obviously didn’t happen.  Luckily, I’d understood the risks.  I made sure to calculate a margin of error in my work—decided that I’d rather risk being too young than…” he mimes a small explosion with his hands.

Luther blinks.  “…Blown up?”

“More like…dissolved,” Five shrugs.  “Which what happens when you spontaneously age forwards so much that you go back to being dust.  Much riskier, especially at my age.  If I’d calculated _that_ way I was risking aging myself up so much that there’d have been nothing left of me but ash, and if that had happened…” he cringes slightly, mimes the explosion again, “ _poof._ ”

“It doesn’t _matter_ what body he’s in,” Vanya straightens her back.  “We aren’t letting you take him.” She sounds so resolute, even though she looks exhausted to the point of pain, pushing herself off of Luther and stepping forward.

“Yeah!” Klaus says.  “Back the fuck off, asshole.”

Something pulls gently on the back of Five’s blazer.  He almost jumps, almost hits the hand away, when he realizes that it’s Allison, trying to coax him back towards the group, towards her and Diego.

Five’s heart does something strange and painful in his chest.

“Shut up, guys,” Five says.  It’s meant to be bitter and acidic, but Five’s tongue feels strange in his mouth.  It just comes out half-hearted, almost exhausted.  He turns his attention back towards Gamma, who is watching expectantly.  “You have a deal.”

His siblings all protest.  Five ignores their noises of indignation, instead lifting his chin to better meet Gamma’s eyes as he slowly reaches behind his back and pulls Diego’s knives out.  Five drops the knives.  Show of good faith.  No gun, no knives.  Just him.  He’s still deadly, of course, but this is as safe to be around as he ever gets.

“Five,” Diego says, voice practically a growl.  He makes an aborted attempt to grab Five by the arm and pull him back, but he’s off-balance and unsteady, still leaning on Allison for support, and it’s easy for Five to jerk his wrist out of reach.

 “Well,” Five says. He sticks one hand in the pocket and then gestures vaguely to the air around them.  “Should you…?”

 “Ah, right,” Gamma reaches to his wrist, pressing down on the crown of his analog watch.

“What did he do?” Luther says, when nothing happens.

And then nothing keeps on happening.

Five raises an eyebrow.  “Is that a—?”

“A watch?” Gamma grins, and then raises his wrist, flashing the crystal face of the watch in Five’s direction.  “Yeah, it is!  Nice, right?”

“The Commission’s moved on from the briefcases?”

Gamma shrugs.  “They’re working on it.  Your damn family has, uh, caused them to lose some of their appeal.  Most of it’s still in the works, though.  I’m just one of the lucky beta testers.”

Five can’t help but whistle lowly under his breath.  “Well, I have to admit,” he says.  “I like the look.  It’s probably easier on the back, too.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Gamma grins.  “Those were such a pain, huh, old man?”

 “The worst,” Five chuckles, shaking his head slightly.  “And the Commission only makes the switch because I left.  Just my luck, huh?”

“Well, at least your legacy will be something of note.”

“Mm, and my family…” Five has to resist the urge to glance over his shoulder at them, frozen in time.  He doesn’t know what he’ll see there.  He doesn’t want to find out, just in case it’s something that hurts too much to leave behind.

“Oh, right,” Gamma glances up, examining the frozen Hargreeves siblings thoughtfully.  “Tell you what, I’ll leave them like this until security has time to dump them back at your place.  They’re less likely to struggle that way.  Wouldn’t want them to hurt themselves, right?” He grins, looking pleased with himself, and extends a hand in Five’s direction.  “Well?”

Five grits his teeth.  “Gamma, you’d better—”

“I won’t fuck you over,” Gamma rolls his eyes.  “Why would I?  Then I can’t use them against you anymore, and that would suck for me, yeah?”

Now _that_ , Five believes.  And that is…enough.

The Apocalypse is over.  The world is safe, and now so is his family.  Whatever comes next, they’ll be kept out of it. 

It’s a good thing, Five tells himself.  He does his best work alone, after all.

He takes Gamma’s hand.

 

It has been approximately four days, three hours, and six minutes since Grace has last seen any of her children other than Five.

This is an unusual pattern of behavior, even for them.

She considers this as she cooks.  She is not supposed to stop stirring as the sauce heats—luckily, she is a complex machine, and when she tells it to, her body continues to wield the spoon with mechanical perfection even as she retreats into her own mind.

Here is the data available to her:

_Five days, eight hours, and twenty-three minutes ago, there had been an altercation in the sitting room.  It had lasted for fifteen minutes._

_When she next entered the sitting room, all of her children except Five were there, but he must have been there for the fight—she’d heard him raising his voice during the argument._

_There had been no noise of him slamming the front door, nor had there been any sounds in the stairs or on the second floor that would indicate that he’d gone upstairs._

_Previously, when placed under stress, Five has developed avoidant behaviors, seeking to put as much distance between himself and the stressor as possible._

_Conclusion: Five was upset by the argument - > Warped -> Left house._

_Five days, four hours, and thirty-two minutes ago, Allison had gone up to her room. [Last recorded sighting.]_

_Five days, four hours, and twenty-six minutes ago, Diego had gone on patrol.  Luther had accompanied him.  [Last recorded sighting.]_

_Five days, four hours, and thirteen minutes ago, Klaus had departed for his weekly NA meeting.  [Last recorded sighting.]_

_Five days, three hours, and six minutes ago, Vanya had put on her coat.  She’d said she was going to look for Five.  The temperature had been 45 degrees Fahrenheit, so Grace had fetched her a scarf as well.  [Last recorded sighting.]_

_Dinner had been a solitary affair.  Normal._

_No one had told her not to expect them back.  Abnormal._

_Four days, four hours, forty-five minutes ago, Five had returned to the house, but only for a moment.  He had not entered through the front door (- > he warped).  Despite this, she’d been able to hear him from downstairs.  _

_He had not come down._

_Two hours after that, someone had knocked on the front door and left behind a package for Five._

_Three days ago, Five had come back one more time.  Being informed of the package had catalyzed an unusual pattern of behaviors, commonly associated with high levels of stress and anxiety._

_Then Five had vanished too._

Grace opens her eyes.  The sauce is almost done.  She sets the heat to low and leaves it to simmer, turning her attention to the noodles, meticulously prepared by hand and almost ready.

Her children are in danger.  She knows this.  She just…isn’t sure how she knows it.  When she pushes the information through her programming, her vision just flashes, her system glitching briefly as it processes and ultimately comes up: **_Error: Insufficient Data._**

Insufficient data.  She has insufficient data, yet she is sure, _so sure,_ that her children are in danger. 

This is a malfunction, she thinks, and as if to prove her point her hands start to shake until she catches herself, holding tighter onto the handle of the pot to still the involuntary movement.

It’s the same malfunction that had her nearly disobeying her orders after Reginald’s suicide.  She’d had her instructions.  To keep it a secret.  To lie.  And as much as she loves her children, her programming still demanded that she follow Reginald’s orders above all else.  Yet she had still found herself choking back the words as they itched on her tongue, _begging_ to be said.

She meant to care for the children, after all…Reginald had built her for that very purpose.

Therefore, it was important to Reginald that the children receive care.

And, treasonous though it seems, she couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps he had miscalculated.  He had thought the mystery of his death would be in their best interest, but that was evidentially untrue.  Perhaps, in taking the prerogative to disobey him, she’d be following the spirit of his orders in a way that she never could have if she’d never changed her directive.

Of course, it had never come to that.  Klaus had uncovered the truth on his own, and Grace had allowed herself to ignore the malfunction.  Allowed herself to ignore that her programming never should have allowed for her to consider anything other than textbook obedience.

The problem was not that she had found a loophole in Reginald’s order.

The problem was that she had looked in the first place.

She is malfunctioning.

But what does it matter?  Her children are raised, and they are so, so beautiful.  She is so proud of them.  Reginald, the one to whom she would have been obligated to report this, is gone.  Her malfunctions should not impair her work, and even if they did…her children do not need her anymore, which means that if she _does_ degrade to the point of dysfunctionality…it will be okay.  They will be okay.

The thought usually helps.  It doesn’t now, now with the thought of _danger_ blaring in her head like an alarm.

Her children are in danger.  They are in danger, and she is supposed to take care of them, and—

There is a crash from the living room.  “Fuck!”

Her processors are so caught up on preparing the food and analyzing the information from the past few days (Again, yes.  Again and again and again just in case she’s missed anything) that they lag when trying to recognize the voice.  Male.  Late-twenties or early thirties.  Lower, gruff, hints of pain and irritation—

Her gears grind to a halt as her systems finally remind her of whose voice that is.

Diego’s.

How silly she was being.  What an annoying malfunction!  Grace blinks a couple times as she shuts down her background analyses and she turns back to the food.

“Dinner’s almost ready!” she calls, not bothering to leave the kitchen.  Diego doesn’t like it when she comes out right away.

_You live here too, mom,_ he had sighed, _you don’t have to greet us at the door every time we enter like…some sort of servant._

She still doesn’t know what he had meant.  They are her children—nothing makes her happier than seeing to their needs and making sure that they are well.  But Diego had gotten that strange, pinched look on his face when she’d told him that, so she’d let it go.  If it upset him, she wouldn’t do it anymore, even if she didn’t understand why.

“Fuck!” says Klaus, and _honestly_ , she thought that she’d taught them better than that.  _Language!_ She wants to chide, but never gets the chance.

“Guys,” says Luther.  “Where’s Five?”

Grace has no heart.  No pulse.  Her chest is metal and gears and a battery, all tucked under synthetic flesh and skin and her favorite blouse—blue with a Queen Anne neckline.  But something inside of her _stops_ at the words.  It stops, and its absence makes her feel like she might die.

( _Five had seen the others in the past five days, somehow.  They had come back.  Five has not returned._

_The others have returned.  Five has not—_

_Five has not—_

_Five has not—_

_Five has not—_

**_Error: Insufficient Data_** )

Grace doesn’t remember walking to the living room, though accessing her own memory banks later will suggest that she did, in fact, do so.  The next thing she sees is Vanya, standing pale and wan in the middle of the room. 

Diego is sitting on the floor, his back to Grace, head in his hands, fingers curled tight in his hair.  His posture is tense.  Luther and Allison are standing nervously on far ends of the room, Allison staring at Vanya pensively and Luther glancing around the room as if looking for something, but not knowing what.  There’s blood on all of them. 

“No,” murmurs Vanya.  She is pale and breathless, sweat shining across her brow.  Heartrate: 115 BPM and rising.  Her stance is unsteady.  “You can’t be serious.  How did we _get back here_?”

“Vanya,” Klaus, who is right next to her (the back of his head is bloody— _concussion, minor blood loss, monitor closely_ ) grabs her by the shoulder. “Calm down.”

“We don’t even know where he went,” Vanya shakes her head sharply. “We don’t even know how we got here, and—and—and—” Vanya chokes on air.  She’s been desperately gasping it in between words, and now her body finally fails her, the oxygen catching in her throat and choking her.  She starts to hunch over, panicked.

The house begins to rock.

“It’s alright, Vanya,” Grace says.  Her processors are whirring intensely, working overtime to try and piece together the new information, but it takes no effort at all to cross the room and lean over Vanya.  Four months ago, when the children had started hanging around the house again, she’d downloaded every book she could on anxiety and panic attacks.  She’d also acquired some on depression, PTSD, and addiction.  It is her obligation and, of course, her honor, to try and accommodate all of her children as best she can. 

Vanya, for instance, likes human contact during her panic attacks.  Grace suspects that this has to do with her childhood trauma, which may have instilled in her a fear of isolation so strong that it torments her even during her panic attacks.  So Grace is quick to complement Klaus’s touch with one of her own, placing her hand on Vanya’s back and rubbing it gently. 

“It’s alright, darling,” she soothes.  “It will be okay.  Just breathe.  Clear your mind.”

“Five will need you lucid,” Luther agrees.

Grace is so focused on Vanya that she doesn’t notice Allison approaching until she’s already standing in front of them.  Allison says nothing, just takes Vanya’s hand and squeezes them tightly, and mouths _it’s okay_ , even as Vanya’s eyes are squeezed shut.

It takes a little while, but eventually Vanya settles.  They know not because her breathing evens out, and not because she uncurls, but because the trembling of their home slowly but surely begins to slow.

“Sorry,” she gasps, still hunched over on herself.  The house goes still.  “I’m sorry.  Sorry.  I just—”

“You don’t need to apologize, Vanya,” Grace says.  Being made to feel guilty for her attacks will only make things worse. 

Vanya lifts her head, smiling hesitantly up at Grace.  Grace smiles back.  “I’m so proud of you,” she tells Vanya.  “You’re getting better at controlling it.”

“Thanks,” Vanya murmurs, wiping hastily at the tear tracks running down her face.

“Of course, dear.”

By Grace’s side, Allison tilts her head to the side.  _OK?_ she signs.

Vanya gives Allison a teary smile.  “I’m fine,” she says aloud, even as she instinctively signs _yes_ back.  “Just…” the smile drops, and Vanya shakes her head. “Just angry.

“It’s _bullshit_ ,” Diego mutters, in rare agreement with her.  “Where the fuck is he?”

Five.

Grace has not forgotten.  She could never forget one of her children.  But she had been…distracted.  Vanya’s plight had just been so immediate that it had slipped her mind.

“Is everything alright?” she says.  “You all seem upset.  I have dinner on the stove right now, I can—”

“Not right now, mom,” Luther shakes his head.  Grace blinks at him.

“Where is Five?” she tries.  He must be in danger.  The others wouldn’t be so tense otherwise.  He must be.  She has sufficient data.  She has sufficient data, but her brain keeps telling her: **_error error error error._**

Diego groans, pushing himself to his feet.  “We don’t even know where we were.  How the hell are we going to find out wherever the fuck he is now?”

Allison narrows her eyes.  _You want to give up?_ she signs, the expression on her face borderline accusatory.

“I didn’t say that,” Diego snaps.  “I think I need to take a Tylenol before we continue this discussion any longer.”

He turns, and Grace’s brain stutters again.

**_error error error,_** it says.

“Darling,” she says.  Her face is not one made for terror, so the cold that settles in her core stays there.  “Your face…”

“Shit,” Diego mutters under his breath.  He turns his head away sharply, but it’s too late.

“Let me—” she tries.

“It’s _fine_ ,” he snaps, and then immediately looks apologetic.  His voice is soft when he speaks next.  “We don’t have time right now, Mom.  Five’s in danger, and he’s a little shit, but we can’t just leave him there.”

“Oh,” Grace falters.  She has never done well with conflicting priorities.  Her programming is designed to accommodate one and only one primary command, and now—faced with the dirty, stained bandage covering Diego’s face and the promise that Five is in danger, she doesn’t know what to do.  What to choose.  “But…”

Diego’s smiles at her, a small, half-hearted thing.  “You can look at it when we get Five back, I promise.”

It could be any length of time until they get Five back.  In that time, Diego’s injury could easily be exposed to any number of bacterium and become infected, not to mention that the pain will likely be borderline unbearable.

“Diego, maybe you should let her take a look,” Luther starts.  Diego shakes his head and then immediately winces.

“We’re down one,” Diego says.  “And God knows how much time we’ve lost already.”

“You have been gone for five days, three hours, and thirty-seven minutes,” Grace offers.

“Oh, well, then.  That’s fucking fantastic,” Diego groans.

“Uh,” says Klaus, gaze darting around the room nervously.  “About that.”

“About what?”

“Being down one.”

“Yeah?”

“We’re actually down two.”

Allison’s eyebrows go up, and the rest of his siblings send him looks that are equally quizzical and confused. 

“Two?” says Luther.

Vanya’s eyes go wide.  “You don’t mean…”

“However they dragged us all back here, they uh,” Klaus’s expression is pinched.  Concerned.  Pensive. “Didn’t bring Ben along either.”

Allison drops her head into her hands.

“Oh.  So we’re down our _two_ smartest family members,” Diego groans.  “That’s fine.  Fuck us, I guess.”

“Language, Diego,” Grace says automatically.

“Yeah, Diego,” Luther says, almost a little mockingly.

“I swear,” Diego starts.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Oh!” Grace stands up straighter.  “I’ll get it.”

“No!” the children all shout.  Allison actually grabs her wrist.  Grace could pull away from the hold easily, if she so wanted.  She doesn’t.  She pauses. 

“Yes darling?”

Allison grimaces, glancing down at her hand, and Grace smiles.

“You can sign, dear,” she says.

Allison tentatively drops Grace’s wrist.  _It’s dangerous,_ she signs.  _Be careful._

“Dangerous?” Grace asks.  Answering the front door? 

“We just got kidnapped, mom,” Luther says.  “Let me get the door—Diego!  Diego, I said let _me_ get the door! _”_ He starts off down the hall after Diego as fast as his bulky body can carry him.

Allison, Vanya, and Klaus are quick to follow, exchanging exasperated glances as they go.

Grace trails slowly after them, peering over their shoulders as they congregate around the door, whispering to one another.  Luther has apparently come out on top of the shoulder-checking match between him and Diego.

“ _That’s the guy_ ,” Diego is whispering.  “He attacked us.  He works for the Commission.”

“That’s good, right?” Vanya says.  “Maybe he can help us.”

“Or maybe he wants to tie up the Commission’s loose ends.”

“Or maybe he—”

“Okay, just open the fucking door.  Just open it, I swear to God.”

Luther pushes the door open.  “Who are you?” he demands, at the same time as Diego goes: “Where the fuck is Five?” and Klaus says, “Hey, buddy, what do you want?”

The man blinks.  He’s tall, broad across the chest, with brown hair and a well-trimmed beard.  In a full suit, he cuts an imposing figure. 

“My apologies,” he says.  “We’ve met, but most of you probably don’t remember me.  I’m—”

“Hazel,” Grace says.

The man tilts his head to the side, and in front of her the children go still.  Luther throws a bewildered glance over his shoulder in her direction.

“Uh, yes ma’am,” Hazel says politely.  His eyes narrow slightly, as if in thought.  “Now, you, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting in person.  If you don’t mind me asking, how do you know who I am?”

“Five told me you might be dropping by,” she says.

“And you recognized him?” Luther sounds surprised.

“I recognized his voice,” Grace corrects pleasantly, and then turns her attention back to Hazel.  “From Five’s phone conversation with you.”

Hazel’s brow furrows.  “He let you listen in?”

“He didn’t know.  My hearing is considerably superior to that of a normal human’s,” Grace says, and then shoots the rest of her children an apologetic smile.  “I don’t normally care to be so nosy.  After all, studies show that giving your children a sense of privacy and autonomy is vital to their development.  But Five was demonstrating many symptoms characteristic of someone under extreme duress.  I was concerned that he was going to do something dangerous.”

“Well, shit,” Diego says.

“Normal human?” says Hazel.

Grace smiles at him sweetly.  “I’m Grace,” she says.

“Grace?  Wait, from the book?” Hazel appraises her with wide eyes.  “Huh.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Diego scowls. 

“I don’t know…” Hazel says.  “Guess I just expected more metal.”

“Five must trust you very much,” Grace says.  “To ask you for help.  He’s _very_ independent.”

Hazel’s face darkens.  “I think he just trusts that there are some people in this world that I hate almost as much as he does.”

Ah.  A shared experience—one that has emotional significance to Five.  That would certainly help build some good faith between them.

“The Commission,” Luther says slowly.

Hazel’s gaze shifts back towards Luther.  He doesn’t look shocked.  “The Commission,” he agrees.  Then he chuckles.  There’s no humor in it.  Just disappointment.  “They actually got him.  An absolute legend, and they got him.  I figured, when he didn’t call, but…God, I almost can’t believe him”

“Yeah,” Vanya says gently.  “They have him. Can you help us?”

Hazel goes still.  “They what?”

“They took Five,” Vanya repeats, slowly.

“Took him?”

“Yes?”

“They didn’t kill him?” Hazel looks baffled.

“No…” Vanya says.  Her face pales, and she glances frantically at her siblings.  “Gamma said that they wanted Five alive.  But do you…do you think that they might?”

Hazel hesitates.  When he speaks next, his voice is earnest.  “I think it’s promising that they haven’t already,” he says.

“Help us, then,” Luther says urgently.  “You work—worked?—for the Commission.  You must know something.”

Hazel sighs heavily.  “Tell me everything,” he says.  “And I’ll see what I can do.”

 

 

**From: r.brocade@temps.co**  
**To: ogoranda@temps.co**  
**14:19, October 19, XX51 T.A. Linear Time**  
**Subject: [No Subject]**

_Got him,_

_S_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i???? love grace
> 
> note that her personal thoughts on reginald wishing the best for the children are not objective statements of fact, they are graces way of reconciling her programming that demands obedience to reginald with her programming that demands she protect and love the children. i have feelings about the idea of grace being AI but unsure how to process her own individuality because it conflicts with so much of the coding that reginald gave her


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